


Knights Wear Black (in Faerghus)

by mechanistmacha (SaturnJay), saccharinespice, SaturnJay



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Hallucinations, M/M, Medication, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Multi, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23551372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnJay/pseuds/mechanistmacha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saccharinespice/pseuds/saccharinespice, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnJay/pseuds/SaturnJay
Summary: Only Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd would be sheltered enough not to understand that the reason his family is rich is because they're technically a gang. The biggest in Faerghus, descended from old royalty. He'd rather live a normal life if it meant Glenn didn't have to die, that his father and stepmother didn't have to die. A carefree teenage life becomes a world of nothing but pain when he realizes that his friends were always groomed to be his protectors; especially Felix. But Dimitri can take up the mantle, he can find his revenge, he can lay the ghosts of Glenn, Lambert, and Patricia to rest. Will Felix forgive him then?
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Mentioned Edelgard/Petra/Dorothea, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 17
Kudos: 44





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this with my partner (whom I will figure out how to credit later) because we love modern AUs. Also the Claudevain part was inspired by that cute spy AU comic where they're partners who constantly flirt (I really need to figure out the proper way to credit them). But this fic is mostly Dimitri/Felix, for obvious reasons.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no reason Glenn should have a gun. There's no reason Glenn had to die.

  
  
  
  


Dimitri never really understood why he needed Glenn. Not that he didn’t want him around; Glenn was snappy and sarcastic, but he was always good fun. He was like the big brother Dimitri never knew he needed. But why Glenn followed him everywhere (into the sleek black town cars that took Dimitri from place to place, to and from school, even to soccer practice), he’d never really thought much of it. It had always been that way, since Dimitri could remember. He and Glenn had been friends since they met, at Dimitri’s fifth birthday party.

Of course, the birthday party of Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd was a solemn affair, swarming with men and women in black suits and sunglasses. He was used to that. There’d only been a handful of actual children there to celebrate, and that’s where he’d met Glenn. And from then on, they were literally inseparable. Dimitri never questioned it. He’d never needed to. After all, didn’t it make sense? Glenn’s father never left Dimitri’s father in the same way.

 _“Nice shot!”_ Glenn shouted from the sidelines. He was directing it at Dimitri instead of his practice opponent, who was Glenn’s own brother.

Felix growled and made off with the ball with his own fancy footwork. He was always trying to earn Glenn’s approval, even though Dimitri knew without a doubt that Glenn loved Felix more than anything in the world.

Felix got by Dimitri because he was faster, even when Dimitri was (unnaturally) stronger, and passed it to Sylvain, who ignored it in favor of teasing Ingrid. These three were the only other people Dimitri really knew that were his age, the only children allowed at his birthday parties, the only people who even approached Dimitri in the small private school. But Ingrid was the only one on Dimitri’s team in this practice round. She seized the opportunity and stole the ball back from Sylvain, much to Felix’s outrage, and passed it effortlessly to Dimitri.  
Glenn shouted all the way down the field as Dimitri rushed down with the ball, running alongside him, grinning. Dimitri was king of the world in that moment, hearing Felix dashing behind him to try to stop him from scoring the goal, hearing Glenn’s whooping encouragement in his ears.  
He was King of the world just then.

And then Glenn was on the field, too close, running _towards_ him instead of alongside the field, and the ground rushed up to meet Dimitri in an instant. A muffled shot, then another, a panicked shout from someone--Sylvain, maybe?--and half of Dimitri’s world went dark as Glenn, in his black blazer, fell across his body, seizing Dimitri’s blue soccer jersey in one hand and wrenching him to the left.

Just a bit to the left.

Fire crossed Dimitri’s eyes, sure and quick and half of Dimitri’s world went dark for another reason as he felt the sickening pull of something terrible and cutting across his eye.

He was on the ground and all he could smell was blood and Glenn was in his lap and someone was screaming and someone was running and someone was talking to him, someone was talking _at_ him, and someone was chattering too fast and he couldn’t understand and Glenn was still on his lap and Glenn wasn’t moving and Glenn was--

“Mitya,” came a sudden sound, and Glenn? It was Glenn… it had to be. “Y-your eye…”

Dimitri didn't understand, how could he? The sun was still up, the skies cloudless and bright. The soccer ball was still rolling, even, into the lush green bushes. Glenn was lying on his lap, dark hair spilled over his leg-- hair-- his hair wasn't red. Why was there so much red? He reached down to touch his chest.

He was sixteen, and his best friend, his protector, was bleeding on his lap.

"I can't--" he said, surprised at the stupidity in his own voice, "I can't see."

Was the blood his own? Was it Glenn's? He pressed against it, a crimson flower on Glenn's white shirt, as if he could stop it blooming.

The other sound of a shot was much closer. It rang in Dimitri's ears, both of them, because with only one eye he could see that the shot had been fired from his own lap. Glenn... Glenn had a gun in his hand. Why would he carry a gun? Why would he need to?

"It's all right," Glenn tried to reassure him, but he couldn't do much more than words, no matter how much he wanted to. "You'll be taken care of." And of course he sounded so sure, so resolute, because that was the way Glenn always sounded.

 _Nice shot!,_ he had said, Dimitri thought, and it was all he could think of for some reason as sirens pealed against his senses like warning bells. He’d always loved Glenn’s approval, especially of his athletic skills since Glenn was just so good at soccer.

_Nice shot._

And then he knew no more.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He awoke in his own bed, tucked in soundly under the heavy covers, meant for winter, not spring. He could barely lift his head, half of it wrapped in yards and yards of... gauze. Was he in a mask? He touched his face, trying to make sense of where he was. His spring home, in the countryside. A young man, a few years older than him, with rich dark skin and shocks of white hair, stood by the door. Dimitri held his covers to his chest, fighting past the haze of the constant _ringing ringing ringing_ in his ears, the dizziness, to speak.

"Where's Glenn?"

The man… the one from Duscur. He was standing in Glenn's spot.

Now, the ringing had given way to the sound of weeping in the next room-- all through the house. Dimitri couldn't possibly understand why there would be weeping. He was fine, he was alive, just... got hit in the face by something. Not a gunshot, that was stupid. No, he'd imagined that. Too many gangster movies. Probably the ball, right? Felix could sometimes kick a little too hard...

The man turned to him. Dimitri recognized him vaguely as someone employed by his father recently, but he didn't know his name.

And the man didn't answer. Just... looked at him, stone-faced. Pitying.

Dimitri forced the blankets off of him, heavy like stones, and began to wobble his way to his bedroom door. Who had put him in pajamas? Who was crying?

"Glenn?" he cried out, loud in the quiet. "Glenn?"

His father and stepmother were gone, in Adrestia on business, and it had just been them, them and the 'suits' his father had hired, as he and Glenn used to call them.

"Glenn?" He called louder, losing his footing on wobbly legs and leaning against the door.

...Why had Glenn had a gun? Other than his marksmanship classes, he'd never handled one.

The man who stood in Glenn's place stepped forward, blocking his path. "Master Blaiddyd... you should get back into bed. You need to rest. You're not well."

"I want to see Glenn," He said, ruffling. No one had ever stopped him before. His brow furrowed, and he pushed the much larger man aside with his bizarre strength.

"Glenn?"

The house was enormous, a manor, with seemingly endless rooms that he, Sylvain, Ingrid and Felix had played in when they were tiny. Their castle since his fifth birthday. Dimitri descended the steps toward the crying, when he found its source.

Ingrid was the loudest, Sylvain clutching her, trying to keep her hushed, though his brown eyes were wide and haunted.

And there was Felix, knelt beside-- A long, white bag, laid out on a gurney lowered to the ground. There was... an ambulance, but there were no sirens. No lights. Nothing. It was evening, and the scene was lit only by the lamps and the porch lights outside.

"Felix?" Dimitri finally managed, "Where's Glenn?"

Dimitri would never forget the way that Felix looked up at him in that moment. Would never forget that face, always rolling his eyes or scowling or yelling at Sylvain. Those were the faces he was used to Felix making. It was nothing like now, nothing like the blank, pulled-taut paleness that looked up at him from beneath the black of sweaty bangs and above the bright blue of his soccer jersey. Why was he still in his jersey?

"Dimitri..."

It wasn't Felix's voice. It was the solemn tone of Felix’s father, standing up from the couch, face drawn and pale as his son's; Rodrigue, his father's most loyal friend.

And Dimitri didn't know what was _supposed_ to come after this, but what happened certainly wasn't supposed to. Rodrigue putting a hand down, drawing Felix up. Holding his shoulder too tightly. Steering Felix towards Dimitri, past Sylvain and past Ingrid and past the other suits Glenn always made fun of. No, this wasn't supposed to happen, Rodrigue getting to his knee, pushing Felix down beside him. Felix and Rodrigue weren't supposed to kneel to him like this, and Felix wasn't supposed to start crying. Who had orchestrated this bizarre dream?

"As the Shields of Faerghus," Rodrigue said and his voice was so, so far away, so heavy with something _wrong._ "We swear our loyalty to you, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, upon our very lives."

And Dimitri looked at Felix to correct this because something was terribly _wrong_ here.

But Felix shook. He did _not_ correct what was wrong. "Our very lives," he echoed and he couldn't meet Dimitri's one eye anymore. As if maybe he never would again.

Dimitri was horrified. "What is _happening_ here?" he demanded. "Where is Glenn, what Shields of Faerghus-- what are you _talking_ about, Rodrigue?"

When he raised his voice, he sounded so much like his father. Sylvain stepped forward, his arms still around Ingrid, who couldn't speak past her tears.

"Mitya," he said, soft, "Glenn is gone. He--"

Before Dimitri could hear the rest, he marched past Rodrigue, past Felix's kneeling shape, and pulled open the white _trash_ bag Felix had been looking so intently at.

He vaguely heard Sylvain cry _"Stop!"_ but he wasn’t about to heed that warning.

The truth, laid bare.

Glenn's amber eyes were open, his mouth slack, splattered with a mist of blood. This was not a fine, peaceful death like he had seen in movies. Like the body of his mother, he'd seen dressed up, her mouth stuffed with cotton.

This was a corpse; bloody, horrified, and crying in silent terror in the face of death, his shirt open, showing the full violence the bullet had left in him.

In the beautiful manor, with its white walls, vaulted ceilings and beautiful ramparts, lay the truth of death.

Dimitri began to breathe a little more, a little more harsh.

"Rodrigue?" he asked, suddenly terrified. "Where is my father?"

Felix ran. He ran away and out the door and Sylvain almost went after him, but he couldn't bear to leave Dimitri either. Couldn't bear to leave Ingrid.

Rodrigue stayed on one knee, head bowed. "Dimitri..." he said hoarsely. He couldn't answer. He couldn't. After all, Rodrigue was supposed to be in Adrestia _with_ his father and stepmother right now. Why had he come back early?

Dimitri was left on the ground. The world moved around him. An EMT tried, for a moment, to shut Glenn's eyes, but he could not. He wasn't even given that dignity. The bag was zipped up, the gurney lifted, and jammed into the back of the ambulance-- a glorified hearse.

Dimitri turned to Rodrigue, his jaw wobbling, trembling, as he begged him. "Rodrigue? Where's my Father?"

Rodrigue finally lifted his chin to look at him. Dimitri understood then that he was only answering because he'd been ordered to.

"Dimitri... your father is gone."

Dimitri’s mouth was dry. He tried to get it to work, turning to stare back at the ambulance, now driving down the winding path of the manor, deep into the hills, bearing Glenn away, away, forever away.

"My- my mother?" he asked, desperate. "Stepmother was with him, where-- Rodrigue, _Glenn."_

Rodrigue shook his head again. Again, and it was becoming silent sign language, the shake of the head; _She's gone too._

"Why would-- why would-- anyone-- anyone shoot Glenn-- why-- why did he have a _gun?_ I need--" He began to solidify from a terrified little boy to a furious teenager, taking Rodrigue's shoulders. "Why did he have a gun? Why would anyone-- Why are my parents dead? Why is _Glenn_ dead?!"

Sylvain could see the face of a grieving father on Rodrigue, and reached out to Dimitri, trying to quiet him.

"Mitya... we need to sit down and have a talk, okay?"

But it seemed he wasn't going to be still. He shot in the direction Felix had run, trying to run from what had happened, run from what was happening now, what all was so _wrong_. And he was in field and track, so. Not like anyone would have much luck trying to stop him after such a headstart.

Dimitri didn’t find Felix that day. Sometimes, he wondered what he would have seen if he did. Would Felix have looked at him with blame? Would he have accused Dimitri of being the reason his brother was gone? Or would he cry, the way he did when they were so much smaller and he didn’t hide himself away when he felt the need to emote?  
No, he didn’t find him. He ran until he couldn’t run anymore, and was descended on by Rodrigue and the young man who stood in _Glenn’s_ spot. He didn’t remember the rest of the day now.  
Only that, over the next five years, it consumed him, eating away more and more of the fragile memory he tried to cling to of Glenn, running next to him on the field, laughing and yelling encouragement.

But those days were long gone.


	2. Cigarettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand and Hubert arrive with some business from Edelgard, but Dimitri isn't equipped to handle them right now, especially not knowing if they're friend or foe.
> 
> Glenn agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Mental illness, visual/auditory hallucinations, pills, cigarettes to cope
> 
> Next chapter: Trauma-induced violence

Dimitri woke in the same bed, but it was no longer in that beautiful white castle. He woke in a fine penthouse, on top of the mountainous city of Fhirdiad, far from the countryside. He opened his remaining eye. No amount of surgery had been able to save his eye, so it was taken. Though it no longer hurt, it was disturbing enough to look at that every morning, he reached for his eyepatch.

The heavy covers were pressed aside as Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of Faerghus, rose from bed, standing tall and terrifying, even at twenty two.

"Dedue," he said simply. "Good morning."

The man was already up and moving, as he always was. Despite all of Dimitri's best efforts, he never could get up early enough in the morning to beat Dedue.

"Master Blaiddyd," he spoke more softly than a man his size could be expected to. He folded, showing his own scarred face and head (under the shaved white) as he bowed. "Good morning."

He wore the same black suit everyone else around him did, but he also wore an apron over it, because, well... It was Dedue. "I have laid out your clothing," he said quietly, gesturing to the well-pressed suit draped over the ironing board.

Dimitri sighed. "You didn't need to." Still, he began to dress himself, pulling his clothing on over scarred skin. Before he put on his jacket, he fastened the holster for his sidearm, tucked another behind him. He struggled a little with his jacket, but refused help as he squirmed into it, putting a rich fur over his shoulders. The city always gave him a chill.

Finally, after enough fiddling, he gave in. "Dedue, my cufflinks..."

Dedue did not smile when he stepped forward to help, having expected nothing less because it happened every morning. He didn't smile, no, but Dimitri swore he saw amusement in his eyes as he stepped forward to fasten them, his hands remarkably gentle for someone so remarkably _large_. He was probably the only man in Faerghus more enormous than Dimitri himself, Dimitri liked to think. There was something comforting about it. Like a giant shield.

Of course, Dedue was not the one with the actual title of _Shield_.

As Dimitri followed his vassal out into the kitchen, he saw Ashe, humming as he chopped green onions, sweeping them into the already simmering omelette. "Master Blaiddyd, good morning!" Cheerful as always. "Your coffee is already ready, if you like."

Dimitri took the coffee, with a little assenting grunt to Ashe. He was far too much of a morning person for Dimitri's liking, despite how sweet and earnest he could be. Ashe was more tolerable as an afternoon companion. Yet here he was.

"Has Sylvain checked in from the field?" Dimitri asked, sitting at the bar, not the elegant dining room table. Too many empty chairs. Also, of course, there were various firearms disassembled on it, which Ingrid was currently cleaning.

"Not yet, Master Blaiddyd," Ingrid said, carefully inspecting a barrel. "Claude has eyes and ears on him."

"Let us hope his efforts were fruitful."

"Fruitful in the good way," she mumbled, speaking of Sylvain.

The penthouse was not normally so full of people. Dedue and Ashe were always here in the morning at least, but Ingrid was normally out on her own mission, as well as Felix.

The Shield of Faerghus stood to the side of the table near Ingrid. While Ingrid swept gun barrels for dangerous debris, he carefully tended to a thin sword blade with a cloth, leaning against the wall and ignoring the rest of them. He didn't say good morning to Dimitri, despite Dedue's continued anger at such lack of manners to their King.

Dimitri, however--whatever soft part of him still existed, longed to reach him.

"Good morning, Felix."

Felix didn't look at him at all. His hand did not falter in its task, caring for his blade so tenderly, more softly than he did anything in his life. He responded with a grunt, nothing more, ignoring Dedue's scowl.

"Master Blaiddyd?" Ashe asked, smiling so sweet. "Do you want Calude’s spices in your omelette?"

Claude had constantly blamed Dimitri's lack of ability to taste on what he called 'white people food,' which was fair. For the King's birthday, he'd given him some imported Almyran spices.

"Yes, please."

No one else here could stomach the stuff but himself and Claude. Occasionally Dedue. Even cooking with it, Ashe had to hold it at arms' length so his eyes wouldn't water. Dimitri read the reports, his laptop already open, typing with two fingers like a much older man. The Blaiddyd house was one of the most technologically advanced houses, but he didn't fare well with it himself. That was Annette's department. Mostly because she was a disaster at anything else.

Soon enough, two faces appeared on the screen, speaking in singsong.

"Good! Morning! Mitya!" Sylvain crowed.

"Someone got laid," Ingrid huffed.

Claude rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "Laid and laid again," he accused over the irritatingly staticky feed. It couldn't be helped. Despite the high-tech, they were currently all the way in Almyra. "But he actually did his job... for once."

Dedue sighed over Dimitri's shoulder, shooting Sylvain a disapproving look. "Do not refer to Master Blaiddyd in that way." He didn't care that they'd grown up together. Sylvain could stand to show Dimitri more respect than calling him a cute childhood nickname.

"Hey now. I do my job well, thank you. They took the bait, and how could they not?"

"Dedue, that is a losing battle," Dimitri said, strangely soft to Dedue before he turned to the screen, "Is it done, then?"

"Nope."

 _"What?"_ Dimitri thundered, near breaking the bar in half. No one flinched anymore. Dimitri yelling in the morning was par for the course. "What about the nuclear pile?" He snarled.

Sylvain, even thousands of miles away, looked a bit sheepish. "Claude has it taken care of. Let me just... put it this way that when I last met the consulate there was... no place for me to hide anything. But we now have a proper drop site. The other one was far too risky."

Dimitri unfurled a little, picking up his coffee again, trying to let it soothe him.

Ashe nervously served Dimitri his breakfast. He may expect the yelling, but it still made him avoid eye contact.

Only one person, however, would chastise Dimitri for it.

"Do you fucking _mind,_ boar?" Felix snapped from the other end of the table as he ripped the earpiece out of his head, flinching at the way it rang when Dimitri raised his voice like that. "As if anyone needs to hear your screeching so early."

"Felix," Dedue said darkly, warning, but Felix utterly ignored him, as always.

Dimitri sank back into the seat. "Forgive me, I... did not sleep well."

He never did. Ashe set his pills on the plate beside his coffee, and he dutifully took them. He had another method of dealing with the stress too of course, and reached for a pack of cigarettes. He raised one to his lips with shaking hands, allowing Dedue to light it for him.

How Glenn would chastise him.

"Alright. Alright... So tomorrow, then?"

"Yes," Sylvain said, very serious now. "It should be enough to keep those bastards from squashing this village."

Claude turned towards the camera fully to look at Dimitri. Dimitri wasn't his King and he didn't have to treat him as such, but he did consider him an ally at least. The Blaiddyds had done so much for Almyra.

"I'll see that he does it," he said, unusually serious. "Til then."

He hung up.

Dedue tucked the lighter away. "Master Blaiddyd, the car is waiting for you when you like, the meeting to begin in approximately one hour."

Right, right. Some business with an Adrestian Count.

Dimitri finished his cigarette in one savage huff, something most people wouldn't be capable of, and disposed of it in the ashtray. They had to stop him from putting it on the plates where Ashe had to clean it.

"Alright. I'm off, then."

He expected Felix to follow, and did not dishonor him by asking.

"Forgetting something?" Ingrid said, raising her chin boldly.

"Ah..." He wasn't sure, checking his pockets. Gun... gun... cigarettes... knife...

She flicked a hair tie at him from the many that were on her wrist. "Dedue, tie his hair back. He's going to meet with a count after all."

"My apologies," Dedue said carefully as he stepped forward, bringing Dimitri's hair back from his face, pulling it aside to show the scars, the eyepatch... all of it. Because even when people didn't like to look at scars or an eyepatch, the effect was worsened when he wore his hair loose, the black fur mantle hunched at his shoulders like a beast.

Felix made a soft noise of disapproval. As if anyone might want to see the boar’s face fully.

  
  
  
  


Two sets of footsteps accompanied Dimitri on the stairwell. His father had always warned him never to take an elevator where he could be trapped. Of course, when he was in high school, Dimitri had assumed he meant trapped by a faulty elevator mechanism, not by potential human threats. Dedue's footsteps were loud ahead of him, warning the threats away. And Felix's footsteps were light behind him, to take care of the threats Dedue could not warn off.

Dedue held open the car door for him. As the Shield of Faerghus, Felix slid in beside him as Dedue drove. He didn't sit too close though. Didn't look at him. Just looked out the window, his hand perpetually on the blade at his side. Of course, he wore a gun, was almost unmatched in marksmanship. But since time immemorial, the traditional weapon of the Fraldarius Household was still the longblade.

Dimitri fiddled with his phone, truly, a long-suffering thing, with its cracked screen and cracked ‘unbreakable’ shell. But he managed to thumb out a message to their honored guest.

**D.A. BLAIDDYD**

ETA in 10.

**F. VON AEGIR**

Oh goodness, you're early! I'm terribly sorry, I'm getting tea and coffee, you sure are an early bird, aren't you? Give us fifteen, we'll be there.

Dedue looked back at Dimitri through the mirror. "Is there somewhere you would like to stop, Master Blaiddyd? You mentioned last night picking up a gift for the Count."

Felix scowled darkly, but didn't say anything. He hated shopping with a passion. Not only because Dimitri took absolutely forever wherever they happened to go, but because there were always too many variables when shopping in public. Too many entrances and exits. 

But Dimitri knew Felix didn't mind that part of the challenge.

Dimitri's method of shopping was more... hiding. Or getting so indecisive he either bought both and regretted it, or panicked and fled without buying anything.

"I... Yes, Something... local, a souvenir a foreigner would like."

He assumed that the Count had been to the kingdom of Faerghus before, and he was not going to be amused by whatever knickknack peddler's stalls were selling. What exactly did you get for a visitor to Fhirdiad?

A pretzel?

The man was a Count, he didn't need a cheap pretzel.

Finally, he sighed. It was time to ask the Shield for advice. "...What do you think?"

"I'm not the gift-giving type," Felix snapped back immediately, still refusing to turn his head in his direction.

"Master Blaiddyd," Dedue said patiently and Felix rolled his eyes yet again. It was still a step up from Dedue calling him 'Your Highness,' especially when royalty no longer existed in Faerghus. But it was still annoying to hear Dedue keep calling him Master Blaiddyd. "A traditional gift from Faerghus would be fur, would it not?"

"Ah, yes. Gedding’s has a shop on Fifth. A stole, I suppose."

Indeed, just as Dimitri stuck one long leg out of the car, the shopkeepers at Gedding’s recognized him, smiling, all sunshine. They didn't ask how, or with what, he was going to pay. He picked out a mink that felt soft and unassuming as minks went, and headed toward the door before one brave girl chased him to wrap it up nicely.

Felix almost severely maimed the poor woman for running towards Dimitri like that. Luckily, he recognized it was not a threat. He still glared at her though. Like a viper. She would not likely forget that anytime soon.

Now they'd be a little closer to time and wouldn't be waiting at least.

The building was owned by the Blaiddyd family and it was as old as the Blaiddyd name itself. It was one of the only castles left in Faerghus, still holding strong since it had been a fortress in times of old. Now that it was refurbished and renovated, it would have been a wonderful place for tourists.

But no tourist would ever set foot in the Blaiddyd's ancient home. No. It existed now as a place of business for Dimitri and whatever descendants he would have one day, if any.

Dimitri sat in the backseat with his little daintily-wrapped gift package, silent. From time to time, he tried to think of something to say to Felix, but was usually snapped at immediately. He didn't... really have it in him to entertain some Adrestian Count. It was wild to him that a country like Adresia-- the Adrestian Empire would still have a monarchy, but... they were old fashioned. It was true, he was descended from the Kings and Knights of old, and shared their name, but... he wasn’t truly a King, no matter what Rodrigue told him.

He fiddled with the little ribbons on the gift bag.

Of course Felix wasn't about to open conversation of any sort, although he did touch his earpiece when they neared the castle and muttered some instruction of sorts, only to open his phone in pure annoyance, texting in a flash.

He noticed Dimitri looking. "What?"

"I'm just... your hair-- looks nice today."

Dimitri felt like a goddamn idiot, but he didn't back down, at least. Rodrigue had been his guardian until Felix came of age, his skills honed to become his Shield. They were seldom apart, and even then, he had Dedue; he wasn't left alone, not even for a moment.

Despite this, Felix was not affectionate. In fact, if anything, the longer they spent together, the colder he seemed to become. He just stared flatly at him, rolled his eyes, and went back to his phone.

That's when Dimitri noticed it, just under the long sleeve of Felix's jacket. A bandage, tightly wrapped.

"What happened?" he asked. They were together so much, he couldn't believe Felix had sustained an injury that he didn't see. "Have you had Mercedes look into it?"

Felix glanced down and then--Dimitri saw it--exchanged a look with Dedue in the mirror. They couldn't stand each other, they never shared discreet looks like that. But he saw it for sure, just a flicker.

"It's fine," Felix said and something in his tone had shifted a little. To what, Dimitri couldn’t identify.

He felt as if Dedue and Felix had spoken a secret language he wasn't allowed to learn. He bowed his head, strangely meek, and stared at his fine shoes.

They pulled into the electronically guarded gate, flashing a card.

There were only the cars of those who worked there, nothing new. The two Adrestian Counts (because honestly, Dimitri had forgotten there was another one, since Ferdinand was the chattier of the two) had come by a private car that had since departed.

They were guests of Dimitri's and he had to be exceptionally careful with both of them, because they represented connections and money that might be funneled to good causes that they championed.

That, and searching, ever searching for the murderers of his parents and Glenn.

Dimitri emerged from the car, trying to shed the parts of him that were unsavory, which... was most of him, really. He was left with an awkward smile and a bit of a duck to his head that didn't suit someone as tall as he was.

The Count was easy to spot, with fiery red hair and a bright crimson overcoat. He stood outside the front doors, eagerly taking photos of the pretty architectural elements, flying buttresses, carvings, and the like.

Beside him, almost easy to miss next to someone so... orange, was another man, a shade taller and dressed almost entirely in black. Dimitri mostly wore that color, with a splash of blue sometimes since it was the national color of Faerghus, but on this man, it looked undoubtedly more _sinister._

"Ferdinand, please," he was heard to say as Dimitri approached, Dedue and Felix to either side of him. "This is a historic _monument,_ not a photo op."

Dimitri thought to himself that they looked like a salt and pepper shaker, wildly different in color and taste.

"It is both," Dimitri said with a tight smile. He quickly realized too, that he had only brought one gift, and turned a bit ashen. Why was he allowed to oversee these diplomatic meetings?

"That is what _I_ said," the redhead exclaimed, a phone in one hand and a frothy latte in the other. "The architecture is stunning, truly. A marvel, a wonder of the world!"

The man who Dimitri had forgotten about turned to greet them. He was handsome in that sort of gothic way. Like he had stepped from the cover of a teenager's vampire novel, only less vulnerable and with eyes that were actually cruel and not hiding some secret longing for a spunky teenage girl.

"Ah, Lord Blaiddyd. You have arrived." He bowed because Dimitri's title surpassed his own, but he had no obligation to obey or placate him. "Hopefully then I might find more stimulating conversation with you than this idiot."

"Please... Mr. Blaiddyd is fine." After all, Faerghus was no longer a place of lords. Not really.

Ferdinand stuck out one hand, in crisp leather gloves, his smile winning, like any politician, his eyes shining bright.

"Count Ferdinand von Aegir, what a pleasure! And what a pleasure to be here in Fhirdiad, it truly is incredible," he gushed happily, only then noticing Dedue and Felix. 

Before he could approach them with a handshake, Felix shot him a glare that could've curdled milk and Dedue turned himself into such a statue that Ferdinand knew better than to greet them so gregariously.

His darker companion sighed. "It is a blasted _miracle_ that he is so eager this early in the morning. Hubert von Vestra," he introduced himself, not bothering with handshakes. He seemed to fit in with this group better in that way. "We are sent by Lady Edelgard. Of course, you knew that already."

A servant opened the doors for them, and it always felt so strange stepping inside this castle. Even as a boy, when Dimitri used to pretend he was a knight when he visited, it felt almost familiar. As if he'd always lived within the castle walls and not a country manor or a swanky penthouse.

Somehow, it felt _better,_ these stone walls and floors, the thick tapestries. He felt like he could breathe easier. His shoulders softened a little. "If you'll come this way, past the grand chamber..."

Once it had been an enormous dining hall, filled with wooden tables. Now it was just empty, like a ballroom, with massive arched ceilings and stained glass painting the floors a kaleidoscope of colors.

This was usually the room he let dazzle people on its own merits, without having to explain himself. Explain his behavior, his appearance, anything.

Even though Hubert shot Ferdinand _A Look_ that dared him to take pictures, he seemed impressed himself. "The wealth and history of the Blaiddyd family is truly exceptional," he said coolly as Dimitri led them in. "Second only to the Hresvelg name, of course."

It was a much older family, the Adrestian Empire's first household. Dimitri knew of Edelgard von Hresvelg, daughter of the Emperor, but other than her _colorful_ past and their few strange meetings, he only knew that Hubert was extremely loyal to her. Dimitri had to wonder if any of the rumors were true. The Imperial Princess had more or less vanished from sight after she was transferred as a teenager to a boarding school off of the continent of Fódlan. Having met her, Dimitri absolutely believed she beat a young man to death behind her Church school gym for attempting to feel her up.

"Of course," he said simply.

Ferdinand was beside himself, gushing about everything he clapped his eyes on. The leading, the carvings, the painted ceilings.

"Oh, what a treat, what a delight, I cannot wait to text these to Lady Edelgard..."

"Must you?" Hubert groaned, seeming resigned to the inevitably of it all.

As they walked through, Dimitri went through his routine of memory. He and Glenn had hidden from Sylvain there. He had helped Glenn bandage Felix's foot there. He and his father had walked these halls so many times. He was sure Felix was doing the same thing. While the Counts were looking around, making new memories, Dimitri and Felix were reveling in the old.

The meeting room was smaller but no less grand.

"A gift," Hubert said as soon as they were seated. "From Lady Edelgard."

He passed over a sealed envelope, sliding it carefully across the table as if it were a loaded gun. Dimitri already knew what it was; a contact of free passage between Adrestia and Faerghus for Dimitri and those who served him. He would have diplomatic immunity should any _unfortunate_ business occur while visiting there.

Edelgard was basically giving him the right to rampage in her country if he located the murderers.

He had written to Edelgard; long-form letters, which she always returned in a timely manner. They had not often met in person, or even been formally introduced by their families as would have been proper, but he felt a strange kinship with her. They were of roughly the same age, and both tied to ancient families with great expectations ahead of them. It was a rather exclusive club that Dimitri wished he was not a member of.

"Forgive me," he cleared his throat. "In all that has been happening, I only prepared for Count von Aegir's visit."

He offered the dainty little bag with its colored tissue paper and ribbons.

"Oh! Is that? Is that Fhirdiad fur?" Ferdinand recognized the brand name, and took it with careful, reverent hands, unwrapping the gift with deft fingers, his gloves stuffed under one arm. He gasped at the bright red-brown sable, and immediately put it on, wrapping it over his shoulders. "It's so _warm_. No wonder it's so popular here. A taste of Fhirdiad life!"

It didn't occur to him that most in Fhirdiad couldn't afford fur.

Hubert shook his head, not in the least bit upset not to receive one. "No forgiveness is necessary, Lord Blaiddyd. I myself did not bring a gift." In an odd way, when he looked at Ferdinand enjoying the fur, he almost seemed... Satisfied. They had clearly known each other for a long time.

Dedue leaned forward. "Master Blaiddyd, forgive the interruption. There is a rather urgent incoming call from Master Riegan." He handed over the phone.

Dimitri bowed his head. "Please, a moment. There is an attached library... Felix?" he asked, his hand cupped over the phone.

"A library!" Ferdinand gasped, "I imagine it’s big enough to need ladders..." He nearly tripped over Felix in his eagerness to follow him.

Ducking to mumble his answer into the phone, Dimitri spoke softly. "Claude? What is happening?"

Felix led the Counts silently away, and good thing. As soon as Dimitri picked up, he could hear the distress in Claude's normally unwavering voice.

"Sit down and brace yourself," he sighed and Dimitri could just see him pinching the bridge of his nose, like he always did when stressed. "Sylvain's missing. Walked right off the grid."

"...He what?" All the air had sucked out of Dimitri's lungs. Smiling, cheery Sylvain, his first friend, only after Felix.

"That's literally the extent of my knowledge, it just happened," Claude promised, and after all that Dimitri had done for Claude and Almyra, Dimitri had no reason to doubt his sincerity. "I'll keep you updated. No news is good news from me, okay?"

 _"How is this meant to be good news?"_ Dimitri growled, threatening to repeat that morning’s roar. "I spoke to you both barely an hour ago!"

"Well, it's _not_ good news," Claude pointed out coolly. "I'm just saying that from here on out, I'll only contact you if there's bad news." He kept a level head, always when Dimitri snapped. It was more than could be said for any of those who served Dimitri. Even Dedue was usually on edge. "Got to go. Good luck with El's lackeys."

He hung up on him, something only he and Felix ever dared to do.

Dimitri took the moment alone (while Felix was rather badly trying to entertain two foreigners) to bury his face in his hands. Fuck. _Fuck._ He couldn't be doing this. He couldn't be sunny on a good day, much less now. Sylvain, warm, gentle Sylvain, missing in only an hour... and he had last spoken so cruelly to him.

He breathed sharply through his nose, and dug through his pockets to locate a small metal box. Inside were neat rows of pills, and he dry-swallowed one, desperate to calm his furious heart and spiraling brain.

Dedue watched carefully as Dimitri reached for the pill box he carried everywhere. Whatever news he had just received, it wasn't good. He had to warn Felix about the pills. It would certainly be a long night for the Shield of Faerghus.

Felix was rolling his eyes, annoyed as Ferdinand scurried around the library, taking pictures of books. Hubert watched, just as displeased, if not more so.

"Lord Blaiddyd," he sighed. "Is everything all right?"

Dimitri rolled his shoulders, trying to steel himself. He had ministers to impress. He gave as winning a smile as he could manage, which looked a bit like an animal baring its teeth.

"All is well. One of my housekeepers managed to burn a hole in my shirt." That was the closest he could come up with to mundane.

Dimitri didn't honestly have housekeepers. Too dangerous; not for him, although that would be the excuse his protectors would come up with. No, once the sun set and the moon was high, Dimitri could not be trusted with human life.

Felix shifted, just once.

"How unfortunate," Hubert said slowly and it was obvious he didn't believe him, but he wasn't going to press. After all, there was no way that Dedue would have interrupted such an important meeting for such a thing. Edelgard might be fond of Dimitri (for Goddess knows what reason) but she was not Emperor yet and Dimitri still had to impress his guests here in Faerghus.

It was a delicate dance that neither Dimitri nor Hubert were very fond of. But Ferdinand, for all of his other flaws, came happily to relieve the tension, if only to shift the mood toward irritation at him.

"Well then... Shall we get down to what we came for?" His brow was set in a determined little furrow, despite the smile nailed to his lips.

Hubert bowed his head, conceding to him for once. "Indeed we should."

For some reason that Dimitri could not understand, Felix rested his hand on his hip, right above the hilt of the sword. It was a threatening gesture normally, one which Dimitri spotted out of the corner of his eye. But somehow... It didn't seem like a threat. More like a gesture of self defense. It wasn't like Felix at all.

Hubert noticed too and looked at Felix warily. Counts or past kings or whatever they all were... They were leaders of glorified _gangs_. Betrayal could come from anywhere, at any moment. And even if Ferdinand clearly didn't suspect the Blaiddyd family of anything like that, this one, Hubert, was not so naive.

They sat at a table clearly several hundred years old, made from Faerghus oaks, and settled in to speak of ways that their organization might aid Adrestia.

Or rather, more thinly veiled, how they might help _Edelgard_ and her shift to seize power. They all knew that, it didn’t need to be said.

There was talk of moving assets; Faerghus was known for its technology; specifically, weapons tech. It was what the Blaiddyd family did, even completely legal weapons manufacturing. Here was no such simple contract, however. He was not supplying weapons to Adrestia, he was supplying them to Edelgard.

She didn't have any interest in wresting power from her father, per se. She loved him, and he loved her. It was more the rampant crime organizations of Adrestia she was interested in. She and her gang of absolutely wild friends from Church school who had, decidedly, ignored the teachings of the Goddess and ran savage through the streets of the Empire.

Still, Edelgard wasn't a bad person, and Dimitri respected her for living her own life, rather than following in the footsteps of her many storied ancestors, like he had.

Hubert was a harsh negotiator for her. Absolutely ruthless. But seeing that sort of loyalty was kind of nice. Dimitri had seen it in his own friends for him too, but never so viciously.

"That's not _nearly_ enough," Hubert hissed, narrowing his bright eyes. "You're not trying to strangle Lady Edelgard's assets, are you Lord Blaiddyd?"

Dedue, decidedly, did not like Hubert. Not the way he was antagonizing Dimitri. Felix, however, seemed almost amused.

Dimitri bristled, "These are generous provisions for this payment, Count Vestra, I know that Edelgard can afford the best for her army. I only wish to provide the best. The best has costs."

He sat back, arms crossed.

"Perhaps what you are interested in isn't only money," Ferdinand eased in, gently coaxing Hubert back from the dangerous hunch he sat in, glaring Dimitri down. It seemed Ferdinand was far more clever than he let others believe. It was likely by design. "What is it that you want, Lord Blaiddyd? Information? Prestige?"

"Prestige is worthless to me."

"Then information. The girls certainly are experts with that. We can trade information as well as money."

After all, they had to be careful to be sure the powers that be did not catch on to their princess's machinations.

Hubert shot Ferdinand a warning glare. He didn't mind him referring to them as 'the girls' since they often did so themselves, but he knew Ferdinand had designs on their powers as well and he would prevent that at any cost.

It was obvious Edelgard might know more about the murderers of the Blaiddyd family than she was letting on. Such was the nature of espionage and secrets. Though she regarded Dimitri as a friend, their countries were technically rivals, and she wouldn't give him everything outright.

Felix's eyes narrowed at Hubert, hand still resting on his blade. Dedue, too, looked frustrated, but Hubert was not to be deterred by mere guards.

Dimitri's jaw tightened, like he might leap over the desk and strangle Ferdinand with his bare hands. But to his credit, Hubert didn't flinch, didn't back down, despite Dimitri’s reputation.

The King of Faerghus wrinkled his nose like nothing but a cornered animal.

"How do I know the information you're hoarding is any good?" he ground out.

"That would require trust on your part."

"So, a gamble, then?" Dimitri bit back.

"We can walk away right now," Ferdinand said, and his amber eyes were sharp, "And you will have neither money, nor information, and may have made a powerful enemy indeed."

"Is that a threat?" Dimitri seethed, rising to his feet.

"Not at all, dearest Lord Blaiddyd," Ferdinand said, sinking back into his chair, knowing full well he had what he wanted. "You are our neighbors. Good _fences_ make good neighbors, and I am making sure our fence is coated in roses."

Dimitri crumpled back down, going over the contract, the numbers, crunching them in his mind. What was the justice of his family worth?

"We'd not dare threaten you while at the mercy of your guards and territory," Hubert said darkly, giving Dimitri the impression that he absolutely _would_ if he thought it would get him any leverage at all. "But _you_ seem quite distressed. Perhaps a break would be in order." They’d been at this for three hours after all, but Dimitri couldn't help but hear the accusation, _'you_ seem quite distressed,' implying that no one else was.

He was used to that, to being the one who was the cornered beast, in distress, while everyone else looked into the cage calmly. He was used to feeling like he was out of control while everyone else stared and silently mocked or judged him. Used to it, but didn't like it any more than the first time.

Dimitri tried to hide his fuming. Ferdinand departed with Hubert, dipping out for ‘a quick lunch somewhere local’ as if they weren't _all_ local. As soon as they were out of sight, Dimitri paced, not unlike a lion in a zoo, his overcoat rustling.

"It'd be a significant loss. But nothing that couldn't be recuperated," Dedue said mildly, trying to calm his charge.

Felix just shot an amused look after the Counts. He had to admit it was fun seeing Dimitri so rattled, but at the same time...

"Bastards," he muttered darkly. After all, they were hampering the pursuit of justice. It wasn't revenge that Felix wanted. He wasn't the sort that believed in that vicious cycle. But knowing someone was out there to do more harm... that wasn't acceptable.

Dimitri prowled in circles, gnashing his teeth. Finally, he lifted his head, turning slowly to Felix.

"Felix? What course of action would you take?" The Shield of Faerghus was not a mere protector, but a trusted advisor as well.

Felix didn't like the role of advisor, honestly. He'd been happy to let Dedue take over that role when they'd met him five years ago. He was the type to take action, always, not the type to sit at a desk and plan.

But a small part of him, perhaps a part of him left over from those five years ago, felt content to be asked. Felt content to be trusted by Dimitri.

He shrugged. "They're here at your mercy. They couldn't do anything if you extorted more from them."

Dedue protested. "When they returned to Adrestia, they would report unfavorably."

Felix glared at him. "That's why you have to extort them in personal ways," he snapped, as if that were obvious. "Find the weaknesses they don't want anyone, even Edelgard, to know. Then they won't breathe a word of it to anyone."

Dimitri stilled, giving something of a wry smile, a bit lopsided, as if he'd forgotten how to do so sincerely.

"So... what can we find about these two to extort? I am sure two Counts interested in political upheaval isn't enough to do it." Well, only really one of them wanted that, it seemed. He pondered, thinking of them both. They were as different as the sun and moon; what could they have in common other than their titles?

Dimitri was a mess at anything personal with himself, much less two strangers. This was when he would usually deploy Sylvain, but...

As if he'd somehow read his mind, Felix said, "Any news?" He didn’t have to mention the subject, it was on all of their minds. It had been three hours since Claude called, but no. Nothing. Claude had said no news was good news, but it didn't feel great not knowing anything. And Felix was looking at him so hopefully, worried about his best friend...

"No," Dimitri said quietly, hating to give Felix yet another reason to hate him.

Their guests would be gone for a time. Dimitri had a little bit of time to roam the empty castle halls, gently run his hand along the stone. He wandered to what was once a grand receiving room, complete with a grand oaken throne draped with old furs, circling it without sitting. 

For a moment, he just let himself be bathed in the light of the stained glass, as if it could give him absolution.

He hated this. This... backstabbing, conniving, scheming.

Dedue and Felix followed him because as his guardians they had to, but Felix looked especially uncomfortable to be in here; where he, Sylvain, Ingrid, and Dimitri had once taken turns pretending to be kings and queens, all with Glenn as their faithful knight. It was too painful.

Dimitri saw him turn his face away, a little grimace there. He didn't want to see the throne.

Dedue broke the quiet, accidentally irreverent of their shared memory. "I am sure we could ask one of the others to find out secrets about our guests." Annette, while a disaster at everything else, was a genius with technology (part of why she'd been hired by the Blaiddyds straight out of high school) and could probably procure some of their secrets that way. Although Hubert, at least, seemed the kind who was too smart to put his secrets on the internet, and Ferdinand seemed like the kind whose personal life was normally on full, unapologetic display.

"It's... only money. Perhaps I should just give them what they want," Dimitri murmured. "It's nothing in the face of finally having answers."

Beneath the snarls and snaps was the truth; Dimitri was ill-suited for his work; singularly minded. He needed everyone else to steer him properly, or he would lead them on a wild goose chase all over Fódlan for a scrap of information. He lay a hand on the stained glass. "...but... That wouldn't be wise, would it." Not really a question when he already knew the answer.

Felix rolled his eyes. "Every bit they take from your pocket is a resource you lose, boar. You should know that by now and act accordingly." So sharp, so scathing. Felix had not said a kind word to Dimitri once in five years. Even so, the pain of that time had not dulled to an ache. It hurt as sharply now as it did then.

Dedue bowed his head. "Respectfully, I must agree with Felix, Master Blaiddyd. After last year, you really cannot afford to be seen as too yielding."

He had made the mistake of giving money to people who had lied about giving information. They had then almost completely wrecked the Knights of Faerghus Foundation, the charity run by Blaiddyd that supplied orphanages and hospitals, to name a few of the victims. So many had suffered because of Dimitri's rash decision.

He sighed. "Fine. Then we have a few hours to find some kind of dirt on them. Contact Annette."

She was all too happy to oblige, laugh growing almost to a cackle over the phone. "Leave it to me, sir, I'll get them in no time!"

He was uncertain what to do until then, other than pacing around a dusty old castle until the Counts had finished their meal. He wasn't hungry, but when was he ever?

There was that twitching in the back of his brain, something that told him someone-- something was coming. He turned his head, listening.

 _They're going to betray you,_ the voice said softly in his ear.

"They might," he said to no one, and a shiver shot down Dedue's spine.

Felix, hearing Dimitri speak to (presumably) no one, was suddenly on high alert. He casually shifted his stance away from him, and unconsciously touched the bandage around his wrist.

When Hubert and Ferdinand returned, Hubert looked completely ruffled, as if something had happened. But Ferdinand looked ecstatic, chattering on about the soft pretzel in his hand as if it was some holy Faerghus relic. And Dimitri was overtired; but that was his base state of being. Still, he found it in him to smile with genuine endearment as Ferdinand stuck the soft pretzel into his cheek like a hamster, going on about the texture and the flavor palette. 

A little chirp from his phone let him know Annette needed more time.

"Gentlemen," he said, trying to keep a hold of himself. "I'm afraid you-- were correct and I am feeling a bit unwell. Would you mind terribly staying in Fhirdiad for a day or so? I am sure I will have recovered by tomorrow."

He heard Felix snort behind him, but continued.

"You'll have only the best lodgings, of course. And..."

He glanced down at his phone, where Annette was feeding him information.

"...And I am sure you would like to see our Opera."

Hubert narrowed his eyes suspiciously, knowing that Dimitri was looking at his phone for a reason, but before he could protest, Ferdinand had launched into a tirade about Fhirdiad's exceptional opera houses. He knew he was beaten and bowed low, though somehow even the motion felt sarcastic.

"Very well, Lord Blaiddyd. We would _never_ wish to impose upon such a kind host while he is in distress."

Again, it felt like he would wish to impose on someone's weakness, given the choice, but he yielded to Ferdinand's excitement.

Dimitri hated that word. _Distress._ It made it sound like he was mildly inconvenienced instead of wanting to crawl out of his skin.

"Excellent. I will ensure that a box seat is reserved for you."

Dimitri couldn't really fathom the entertainment of an opera. It was mostly a lot of held notes, crying, and people dying; all things Dimitri tended to try and avoid if he remembered to have leisure time.

He wanted to escape, or roar at the two interlopers to leave his castle like he was indeed a king of old, but he found himself frozen, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

 _Coward,_ a voice so like his stepmother's told him.

Both Felix and Dedue could tell that they needed to hustle the Counts along. Dimitri had already spoken to himself once, and that was not the sort of leverage they wanted to hand over to Hubert and Ferdinand.

Dedue finished texting. "A car will arrive for the both of you in ten minutes' time."

"Your lordship is too generous," Hubert spoke with a hiss at the edge of each syllable, always. Like a snake, even when he was smiling.

It was Felix who touched Dimitri, a surprising thing that happened perhaps once or twice a year, steering him by the arm to the next room. The touch would be comforting if Dimitri were in his right mind. He saw the sleeve of the arm that steered him slip down again; the bandage was covering a larger swath of Felix's arm than he had originally seen. It was thicker too, more stiff.

Dimitri stumbled on his big feet, letting Felix tow him like a great ship by a little tugboat. He reached out--both repulsed by someone else's trust, and so desperately needful for the reassurance.

 _Stupid boy,_ they told him, _Let go or he'll be gone too._

Felix reacted to being reached for much the way Dimitri expected him to. He struck out, not painfully, but unnecessarily violent for just swatting someone's hand away. He stood there, looking almost confused, then frowned. "Sorry," he said quietly, as if that could explain his reactivity to being touched by Dimitri. Only by Dimitri. Other people could get away with touching Felix. Ingrid, Sylvain, Annette, Ashe... But never Dimitri. Dimitri never knew why.

But honestly, hearing Felix apologize was new. Normally he didn't say anything after pushing Dimitri away. But today, Dimitri got an apology. Like it was a special occasion.

Dimitri tucked his arm back inside the folds of his coat. He didn't have to be steered now, just shepherded between Dedue and Felix as he was stuffed into a car.

His temple rested on the window and he was silent on the way home, though his mind was not. It was a cacophony of voices, hissed and screamed, and his fingers gripped onto the fabric of his coat enough to make the fibers groan. He trembled, just a little, and shut his remaining eye to try and shut out as much as he could.

The judgmental stares of Felix and pitying looks from Dedue, in particular.

Other than those stares, he didn't remember the ride back to the penthouse. The voices mounted until he had gone from just acknowledging them to being unable to ignore them. He shook and twisted in his seat, and Dedue drove maybe a bit too fast to get him home.

He didn't remember walking up the stairs either, but he did remember seeing them in succession. Father became stepmother became _Glenn_ until it was Glenn holding the door for him and giving him a pitying look, just like Dedue did.

 _Hey... You did your best,_ Glenn offered. It was unusual, even unnerving to hear him say something gentle like that.

The others in Dimitri’s employ had scattered, had other duties to attend to, leaving Dimitri with only Felix and Dedue. As soon as they crossed the threshold, he began to tear and wrestle at his coats, the scarves, the stole, everything to get it off, get it _off..._

"Master Blaiddyd," Dedue said, patient as ever, reaching to guide his limbs out of his sleeves before he either ripped the fabric or broke his arms in the struggle, "Slowly."

Finally he was out of his coat, but still felt like he was suffocating, tearing the buttons of his collar open as he gasped for air. He needed-- _something,_ something to chew on, to stimulate something other than his hearing. So, naturally, he seized a cigarette and fumbled with a lighter, despite that he could barely breathe.

Dedue, always concerned for Dimitri's health, actually stepped forward to stop him. Smoking wasn't a good idea right now as far as he was concerned.

"Here. Let me."

Glenn--no, Felix, _Felix--_ stepped forward quietly, his own lighter handy, taking to the cigarette with ease. While Dedue reprimanded, Felix enabled. And Dimitri knew that. Felix knew that, knew how soft he was with him when he shouldn't be.

Dimitri took a grateful suck on the cigarette, the shot of menthol and nicotine making the back of his throat burn, quieting the voices of the dead for a moment, at least.

"Thank you," he said, breathing out plumes of smoke.

He tried not to rock himself, so desperate for something, anything to distract him, but instead settled for bouncing his leg, heel tapping on the floor. "Anything from Claude?" he asked, voice hoarse.

Dedue was too busy looking worried about Dimitri's physical health to answer.

Glenn answered for him. "Not yet."

Dimitri lay his head in one hand, the cigarette balanced in the other, ashes dropping onto his skin, burning him… he didn't notice. His eye slid shut, swollen, as he tried to ground himself.

Glenn was dead. Glenn was buried. He had attended the funeral, holding Rodrigue's hand while Felix stood as far away as he could in the springtime rain. This was Felix, _Felix._

"Thank you," he said, almost to no one.

And he knew it wasn't Glenn, knew it couldn't be. He knew it with his head and even with his heart. But if it weren't for the pills Ashe pushed on him this morning, Dimitri knew he might not have been able to tell the difference, and that was, unfortunately, not a grounding realization for him, but the opposite.

Dedue stayed even though he was supposed to be elsewhere. The Blaiddyd family owned many private businesses that could have used his muscle today, but Dedue didn't want to leave him like this. So as afternoon waned to evening, he pattered quietly around the apartment, seeking chores to do. 

Glenn, however, slumped wearily on the couch and lit his own cigarette.

Dimitri sat on the opposite end of the couch, hunched over, his phone sitting on the coffee table, silent and damned. His skin was crawling, and he felt his hair, felt his nails, felt every inch of him in terrifying clarity when all else was mud.

Without any explanation, he wriggled out of his shoes, and folded, like a house of cards, into the leather couch, leaning on the arm as he tucked his limbs close, like an animal in a cave trying to conserve heat, but he was trying to conserve his own mind.

Felix didn't open his mouth to do anything but smoke, but slowly, more and more, Dimitri heard Glenn.

"You have an essay due tomorrow, don't you? Ah, screw it. I can sneak you to the field if you want. We can kick the ball around a bit, would that help you clear your mind?"

And it shouldn't be, but it was coming from the end of the couch where Felix sat. Where Glenn sat, giving him a sympathetic look. Why was he smoking? Glenn didn't smoke.

 _"Hush,"_ Dimitri said, trying to growl and only managing to whimper. "Please," he begged him. "Just for a few minutes."

There were no essays, no rolling grass fields that hadn't been stained with blood and gunshot residue. He pressed his hands against his face, the edge of the cigarette burning his cheek, though he did nothing about it.

He felt strong hands against his own, against his cheek, pulling the cigarette away. "Master Blaiddyd... please, you're hurting yourself."

Glenn rolled his eyes. "So overprotective. You really want me to keep quiet? You don't miss me anymore?" He sounded hurt.

"Of course I miss you, of course-- I miss you, _I miss you,"_ he whispered, devolving into nothing but a shaking animal. The outside world disappeared as he shrank into himself, like a supernova on the cusp of expansion. He was very, very dangerous in this state.

Outside that black hole, Dedue pulled away, glancing at Felix on the other side of the couch.

"Should we take him to the hospital?"

Felix glared, dragging another plume of smoke into his lungs as if it could warm away the pain. "Why? Wouldn't be any different either way. Leave him."

Dedue shook his head. "You were injured last time."

"And the time before that and the time before that, what of it?" Felix hissed back. "Just go. As if I'm not used to being smacked around by the boar."

Dedue flinched, but he knew, no matter how close Dimitri was, he couldn't hear Felix anyway. "If I stayed, I might prevent that."

"No, you'd just argue about how to treat him, just _leave,"_ he snarled.

Dimitri tucked his head into his knees, feeling sweat roll down his back as he finally couldn't bear it, hugging himself and rocking a little, something to give him any other sensation than burning, than pain, than loss.

He gave a great sob, strangled against his body.

Dedue didn't want to leave. But he knew that he was an outsider to this. He wasn't really there, never knew Glenn, barely knew Lambert and Patricia. And he knew that, no matter what, Felix would not let any harm come to Dimitri.

Dedue could also recognize that his sheltering of Felix was completely unwanted.

So he left. He left Felix alone with Dimitri as the sun began to set and the time for ghosts was upon them both.


	3. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert's little mistake with Ferdinand cost him a year. But what was a year without that irritating sunshine?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Choking. Er.... some heavy petting? That's really all I can think of.

For a while Dimitri was still, as if he were asleep. Perhaps Felix had lucked out this night, and his King would remain in a quiet, drugged sleep for the remainder of the evening, needing little more than a blanket or the heat in the penthouse turned up a little.

That was not to be so, and Felix knew it, saw the sweat beading on his brow, sticking blonde hair to skin, saw the color leave his mouth, his chest heaving as he tried, desperately, to breathe normally. Fevers were common for Dimitri in this state, and it rose up, his blood boiling in his veins.

His one eye slid open, unseeing, as he unfurled from his coil, movements slow and dangerous, predatory.

Felix sat still in his posture, slumped on the couch. He appeared casual, but every muscle in his body was ready to spring into self-defense.

Dimitri didn't know why Felix had taken the last few days off, and Felix intended to keep it that way. He alone would deal with the memory of Dimitri smiling, baring his teeth so wildly as he snapped Felix's wrist with a mere twist of his hand.

He said nothing, didn't move. Didn't want to provoke him. But he knew, inevitably, Dimitri would see him--or see an enemy--and then it would be all over. Dedue had taken all the guns in the house, put them away, hidden the lighter, the knives, anything Dimitri could use to hurt himself. But Felix kept his sword. And he kept it in its sheath. He'd never bare a blade against Dimitri.

Not even for his own protection.

Sometimes, on some nights, it wasn't violence. Sometimes Dimitri curled up at Felix's feet like a dog, shivering, mumbling into nothing. This did not seem to be one of those nights, as he stood, not to his full height, his back hunched. He staggered his way forward, his eye practically glowing in the night, and reached out, fingers inches from Felix's face.

"Glenn?" He asked.

Felix didn't even flinch anymore when he called him that, when he reached out. And maybe he should learn his lesson and just say  _ yes, it's Glenn _ but Felix was a prideful man. 

"No," he said wearily, knowing he'd be attacked for it.

It devolved quickly. A stranger, a stranger was here, was going to kill him, was going to hurt those he loved. Dimitri couldn't even fathom one of those people was sitting in front of him. He was not small, but he was fast, and he was violent. His hand, broad as a bear claw, caught Felix around the chest, throwing him to the ground hard enough to make a sickening crack. He bellowed, swore, snarled, bit into him.

Felix vaguely wondered, as he arched his spine, gasping at the sudden shock of pain that raced through him, what this would look like to an outsider. Two men, just sitting on the couch, having a smoke at opposite ends, with one reaching out to the other before attacking him. Probably would appear like domestic violence. It was almost laughable.

He scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding, his wrist aching from the last time. The sword came off his belt, but it was still firmly sheathed, even tied shut. He held it across his chest to stop the assault as best he could, already breathing a bit too hard, his whole arm aching.

Dimitri lunged for him, jaw open as if he were leaping for his jugular. Long ago, his retainers had discreetly had the floors lined with soundproof material, so that their unfortunate neighbors wouldn't hear his roars.

It was such a good thing that Felix was quick. He might have been dead by now. He sidestepped him and thunked the sheathed sword against Dimitri's back as he lunged past. Not enough to hurt him. Just a warning. "Stop this, boar," he snapped, perhaps a bit too hopeful. Sometimes hearing his nickname, the unfortunate nickname Felix gave him was enough to snap him back to reality.

Not tonight, it seemed.

Faceless people, men and women, reached for Dimitri; their arms were shadows and their screams were bullet shots. He whirled on the voices, his eye wild and clouded, his pupil down to a pinprick. Dimitri's lip curled, and he seized Felix's little neck in one hand, throttling him.

Felix didn't know why he hadn't expected this. He gasped--or tried to, trying to pull breath from nothing, from under Dimitri's crushing hand. This wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. He only vaguely regretted that cigarette, now smoldering in the ashtray by the couch.

He clawed at the back of Dimitri's arm desperately, trying to draw blood, to remind him of reality. He struck out the best he could with the sword, smacking Dimitri's belly with it hard, but honestly? His heart wasn't in it. It wasn't enough to make the boar drop him. It wasn't enough. Nothing he did was ever enough.

The sword slapped his ribs, and Dimitri came damn near close to crushing his windpipe. It would have been easy.

_ Destroy your enemy, _ his father said,  _ Eliminate any threats. _

_ He isn't your enemy. _ Glenn's voice, tender again.  _ Dimitri, let go. _

He obeyed, dropping Felix to the floor in a heap of bruised limbs.

When Felix fell, it felt like he fell too far to reach the floor. His own hand flew to his throat as he struggled to remember even the concept of breathing, his lungs tightened as if under some crushing band. He coughed, feeling a little blood trickle from his tongue. His frantic attempts to stay alive tore something in his throat no doubt.

The sword wasn't far from his hands, thankfully, but he didn't think he could stand up. His eyes were dull, used to much worse. He didn't look at him.

Dimitri fell back, huddling-- did not offer aid, nor even apology. He disappeared back into his own mind, into his own suffering, leaving the Shield to sort it out for himself. He did, at some point in the small hours of the morning, seem to come to himself, the fever broken, and speak aloud, with words that echoed in the shells of Felix's ears.

"Felix?"

Felix was relieved. It could have been much worse. It  _ had  _ been much worse. By this point he had dragged himself to the couch and had lain there weakly, struggling not to fall asleep. He wasn't going to call Mercedes. He wasn't going to call Dedue. This was what his life was for. Whatever Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, and any other Blaiddyd that might one day exist wanted.

He didn't answer him though. Sometimes answering incurred more violence. He just sat up slowly, massaging his now blackening neck. Dimitri crept from the corner, and reached down, with the same hand that had so harmed him, to stroke his bangs back.

"Felix-- you-- you look  _ awful..." _

Felix flinched from him because even after five years of enduring his abuse, he hadn't shaken the habits of the boar's perpetual prey. He hated that. "M'fine," he mumbled back. it hurt to talk, it hurt to breathe. It had been a while since Dimitri had just gone for his throat like that.

"I... I can make some tea." He didn't recognize the signs of being choked-- covered by Felix's hand. "Something hot... Perhaps I should call Dedue, you-- shouldn't be on your feet..." As if he hadn't been the one to cause this.

"I said I'm fine!" Felix hissed, and it seemed to tear his throat even more. He tried to swallow down the iron he tasted, keeping his blood in his body. He deflated almost as soon as he snapped. He didn't have the energy tonight. He rarely had the energy for this anymore. "Just... go to sleep," he winced, hoisting himself back onto the couch, taking another cigarette from his breast pocket with a shaky hand. As if his lungs would want that right now.

Dimitri noticed the cigarette, and tried to let it calm him. Felix wouldn't be smoking if he was feeling too terribly sick. Perhaps he had caught a cold, and did not want to be fussed over. He nodded, sort of bleak, and complied, finally disappearing into his room. Beside the bed sat another bottle of pills, for which he idly checked the dosage before palming one down his throat.

By the time morning came, he was still dead asleep, sleeping right through his alarm. Dedue arrived on time as he usually did, to find Felix sprawled on the sofa like a deathbed.

"Master Fraldarius," he said, "Felix--"

Felix cracked his eyelids open as though he might need a crowbar to do so. He really shouldn't have fallen asleep with such an injury. He really should have gone somewhere, gotten it checked out. Last night wasn’t particularly bad, but... it was becoming more and more frequent. It was only last week that Dimitri had broken his wrist.

"Does it look obvious?" was all he managed to ask, touching his throat a bit and wincing. His throat was blue. Almost entirely. But he hadn't gone to a mirror after it happened, obviously.

"You look like you've been hanged," Dedue said, taking out his phone. "I'm going to call someone." He seemed to want to make it his personal mission to step between Felix and Dimitri; either as an intervention or perhaps a grab for power, it was hard for Felix to tell.

Felix snatched at him, but his grip, while still strong, was more feeble than usual. "Don't you  _ dare," _ he hissed, glaring. "I've already missed the last three days, if I miss any more, he'll suspect something's up. You really want that?" He knew for a fact that Dedue didn't. Didn't want Dimitri to hate himself for abusing his closest friend. Friend? Whatever they were now. "I said I'm fine. It's fall, I'll wear a damned scarf and see Mercedes when I have a break."

They both knew he wouldn't go see her. It was just an appeasement.

Dedue shut his eyes, sighing softly. He knew he couldn't argue with Felix, or any of the Fraldarius line left, really. He gave a grim little nod and drifted to wait for Dimitri to wake.

After an hour over his alarm sounded, Dedue could be heard rustling about his bedroom, and muffled sounds of panic. This was not a foreign soundtrack for Felix. It happened from time to time when he took heavy doses. There was a bit of a groan-- it seemed the king hadn't put himself to sleep permanently after all.

Dedue guided Dimitri from his bedroom and situated him in a chair at the breakfast bar, allowing him to lean his head on his arms, but not to go back to sleep, no matter how much he groused.

Felix had, in the interim, taken off his undershirt and wrapped it around his neck. He'd just have to hope Dimitri didn't ask why he was wearing his shirt like that. He didn't really want to answer that question. Another cigarette was out of the question. The one last night had been a bad idea, and he dumped it half-finished in the tray.

Ashe was not here this morning to cook, but Dedue was his equal in that regard, and he didn't mind the Almyran spices so much.

"Master Blaiddyd," he prompted gently. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to eat?" Anything to get him thinking about something else.

"No," he said, "I... don't feel very much like eating." Dimitri was nauseous, and held his head in his hands.

"You must eat something," Dedue said carefully, and reached to brush the back of his hand against his forehead to check for fever.

By instinct, Dimitri slapped it away with more strength than he meant. "I-- I'm sorry,” he said, aghast at himself.

"It is nothing, master," he said quietly. "But you are to meet with the Counts again. You will need your strength."

"Goddess," Dimitri groaned, hiding his face in his hands. He didn't want to leave, especially not to try and leverage political arguments.

Dedue eventually bullied him to eat something, and Felix stayed carefully out of Dimitri's view as much as he could manage. Thankfully, he'd managed to find a blue scarf that Dimitri had stopped wearing when he got the big fur coat. So he didn't look so stupid now. And there was no reason to ask why he was wearing a scarf, because the answer should be obvious.

Fhirdiad was cold this time of year. All times of year. Felix could manage. He spoke even less than usual, so the rasp of his voice went unnoticed too. He acted no differently around Dimitri than ever.

Ferdinand looked bright as ever, even while Hubert was the one nursing a black coffee. They had decided to meet for breakfast (at Ferdinand's insistence) at a little café, 'like they do in Faerghus,' as if people didn't do that everywhere. But Ferdinand was not even at the table when they arrived, busily cooing over a purebred dog, gushing and stroking his ears, leaving Dimitri with Hubert.

"...He is a lively one, isn't he," Dimitri said. Annette had given him some interesting details that morning through text, and he was deciding how to best mete them out.

"Quite lively," Hubert grumbled, taking to his coffee again and glaring at a group of teenagers across the café who were ogling the strange, gothic Count who had wandered in with Ferdinand. "I suspect all talk of business will be confined to the castle walls then, Lord Blaiddyd?" He looked annoyed to still be in Faerghus. Ferdinand, though, was delighted.

"Business, yes. Though I would be inclined to ask you about pleasure," Dimitri said simply. "How did you enjoy the opera?" His single eye bored a hole into Hubert, his mouth a straight line.

Hubert seemed just as inclined to stare right back, unflinching. They both had a reputation for cruelty, after all. "Dismal," he said calmly. "Everybody survived." He glanced at Ferdinand. "He enjoyed it, however, so I am sure you have his gratitude."

"I am... surprised that you were paying attention," Dimitri went on, lying his phone down to reveal the photographs Annette had sent him, of Hubert and Ferdinand in the box seats of the Rusalka, where the latter had climbed onto his lap, taken his pale face in both hands. There was no mistake; it couldn’t be anyone else.

Dimitri had never seen such a composed man become so feral in an instant--perhaps because he'd never looked in a mirror. Hubert was swift. He didn't seize the phone, because he was too smart for that. He knew he was at Dimitri's mercy in every respect. But he did cover the screen so it couldn't be accidentally seen by someone else.

"How crude your methods are, Lord Blaiddyd," he seethed, but he was smiling a bit, as if he'd been given a very interesting puzzle to solve. "I have underestimated you."

Dimitri didn't smile, and tucked the phone back into his breast pocket. His eyes trailed to Ferdinand, knelt, now absolutely surrounded by happy dogs, charming their owners into letting him pet them, rub their faces.

"... You are... fortunate, to have such a spot of sunshine in your life, Count Vestra."

"No doubt you would say so," Hubert chuckled, almost maniacal, a shift from the grim at least. "Considering you plan to exploit me for it. Go on, then. What is it that you desire, given that business apparently cannot wait for the security of the castle walls?" It was strange how amused he seemed, especially since he knew he was being blackmailed and about to be raked over coals he'd lit all by himself.

That had not been what Dimitri meant, but he couldn't fault him. "I believe I made it quite clear what I wanted yesterday. All we will need is a signature, and you may return home as you like. Though I suspect your partner is enjoying himself.” Ferdinand had stood, and was making his way over to the cafe table, passing by the great glass windows, cheeks flushed from the cold, the mink wrapped around his throat.

Hubert glanced at Ferdinand, his hands folded in front of his face, deep in thought. "Respectfully, Lord Blaiddyd, I decline." It hadn't been what Dimitri expected to hear. "It is... Regrettable for us that you have learned something from our little excursion last night, but I will not agree to such blatant extortion of Lady Edelgard's assets... Even if you were to threaten the both of us." He was speaking quickly now, clearly eager not to let Ferdinand know what had happened. "However, if you wish to negotiate something else with the information that you have, I will happily accept... I ask only that you do not bring Count Aegir into this."

Dedue's scowl over Dimitri's shoulder would have scared a lesser man. But Hubert was not a lesser man. "Master Blaiddyd has the information already. You are in no position to make threats."

"No threats," Hubert said with a calm look at Dedue. "Lord Blaiddyd may take the information and ruin the both of us if he so pleases. But I think he would be wiser to accept my personal assistance in exchange for the... Unsavory evidence he has."

"Have you anything in mind, Count Vestra?"

The bell jingled to let Ferdinand in to find his companions. A quick chat with the hostess brought him to their table, where the tension could be cut with a knife. His face fell, and the mirth was sapped from his eyes.

"Good morning," he said, though it was not clear in his voice.  _ What happened? _

Hubert did not look at him at all, did not tear his eyes away from Dimitri's at all. "Lord Blaiddyd and I were just discussing the opera," he said coolly, as if he were about to announce the executioner to bring his blade down. "Another black coffee," he said to the passing waitress. She wasn't waiting on their table, but she scurried to drop everything and obey. It was hard to know if she was hurrying because it was King Blaiddyd's table or because Hubert was smiling in just that terrifying of a way.

Dimitri gestured to the seat before him. "Please. Count Aegir."

Ferdinand sat uneasily beside Hubert, his hands on the table. "I had-- hoped we wouldn't discuss business at the breakfast table," he said hopefully. "The opera was beautiful, Lord Blaiddyd, thank you for your hospitality." He gave them both a thin little smile, that made them squirm. "It is good to see you feeling better than yesterday, as well." A little barb from Ferdinand, reminding him of his weakness.

Both Hubert and Ferdinand hid their obvious affection for one another so well in public. If the pictures hadn't surfaced, Dimitri wasn't sure he'd believe they were involved. And they weren't exactly just... Behaving politely in the pictures either. Annette must have had fun taking them.

"Yes," Hubert said between sips of coffee. "Lord Blaiddyd has only our best interests at heart, of course." Though it might seem like insults, Hubert actually seemed to respect Dimitri ten times more for such a sleazy practice... A fact that didn't make Dimitri's noble heart very comfortable. He  _ did  _ squirm a little, but Ferdinand smoothed it over.

"Well then. I am sure we can come to an agreement quickly, then. Shall we go on to the castle?" He gave one of those soothing, catlike smiles that made his cheeks rosy.

Dimitri swiftly checked his phone. Nothing from Claude.

As they got in the car, Felix fidgeted with the scarf. Honestly, he was used to the cold of Faerghus, so the scarf was too much. But he wasn't going to take it off. He could endure it for a few days. Or... Weeks, honestly, given how long it would take to clear up.

In the privacy of their own car, Ferdinand saw Hubert's normal indomitable attitude slip. He sighed, leaning his brow in a black gloved hand.

"What is it?" Ferdinand asked, ducking to try and look into his face. "A migraine? I knew you should've had more water, you foolish man..." He began to rummage through his briefcase, where he kept Hubert's migraine medication, since Hubert preferred keeping his hands free. His face was pinched in a worried frown.

Hubert frowned. "No, Ferdinand, it is  _ not _ a migraine," he sighed, turning his sharp chin towards the car window. Damn it all... He had not needed his most concerning secret in the hands of the Blaiddyd family. No matter how smoothly the conversation had gone, he knew he'd barely be able to scrape by with his dignity intact. Even Lady Edelgard did not know of his... Strange fixation for Ferdinand (for he refused to call it anything else). And it would be dangerous if anyone knew.

Hubert's past wasn't as gentle as he pretended it was, and it loomed over him even now. But he would not allow it to shadow Ferdinand's own path.

"It is the cold, that's all." Adrestia was not quite this freezing, even around late autumn like it was now.

There was a bit of a ruffling, wrestling with the seat belts, before Hubert was draped in Ferdinand's wool coat, including the fuzzy mink collar. "You must take care of yourself. You're irreplaceable, you know." He seemed fine without the coat, settling in to text, an even smile on his face as he sent Edelgard endless pictures of dogs.

Hubert scowled, but he didn't protest the gesture. He wanted both to strangle Ferdinand for talking him into a kiss at the opera, and strangle himself for allowing it. He should not have let his guard down and, predictably, it had a disastrous result.

Still... To see that little smile...

He shrugged off the coat as soon as they arrived at the castle. He was not about to give Lord Blaiddyd any more fuel by walking in under another man's coat. Adrestia was not kind to people like them. Best they keep it under wraps.

Ferdinand preferred to take Hubert's arm-- his strides were so long-- but found himself brushed aside. It wasn't terribly unusual, but it still stung. He trotted to catch up, and Dedue even held the door open for him, something like sympathy in his gaze. Strange.

What happened next was an utter mystery to Ferdinand. Dimitri sat and signed without so much as a sniff or a growl. What in the  _ world  _ had happened overnight?

"We are grateful for your contribution to a new future for Adrestia and Fodlan," Dimitri said, glowing.

Ferdinand had expected another full day of painful and exhausting negotiations, so to have Dimitri sign off right away... Something was indeed happening here, and he didn't know what. It was unsettling to say the least. And it could only bewilder him ten times more when Hubert announced that he and Lord Blaiddyd had personal business to discuss. What sort of personal business could they possibly have? Hubert hadn't mentioned it yesterday. What had happened overnight indeed...

"We'll likely be staying in Faerghus a great deal longer than expected," Hubert told him, strangely calm for a man who had been itching to return to Edelgard's side as soon as possible. "So make the necessary arrangements."

And he swept off to the castle library with Dimitri and his guardians.

Ferdinand was puzzled to say the least. He phoned their liaison, a sweet-natured boy named Ashe, if he recalled correctly, and asked that their accommodations be extended-- indefinitely. 

"Certainly," Ashe said in chipper sing-song, "No trouble at all." How this boy had ended up working with the Blaiddyd company was anyone's guess, but Ferdinand trusted he would do what was needed. They surely wouldn’t hire anyone incompetent.

Dimitri rolled his shoulders, very aware he was now the one holding the cards. "So, Count Vestra. What do you offer to trade for my silence?"

Hubert stood amongst the immaculately dusted shelved of the library and looked quite at home there. He ran a gloved finger carefully over the spine of an old tome and smiled.

"There are two crimes punishable by death in the Adrestian Empire, Lord Blaiddyd. I am curious," he asked smirking at him behind those dark bangs as if they could hold his secrets. "Do you know them?"

"I can't imagine something as draconian as the death penalty in somewhere like today's world, though it has its merits. I would assume murder might be one." He seated himself in one of the armchairs, watching Hubert with reproach.

Hubert's smile was sharp, tight,  _ uncomfortable. _ He finally met Dimitri's eyes and bowed his head in assent. "Yes, unlawful killing is one of them. The other is, unfortunately, the depravity of sodomy." He took another armchair and folded his hands on his knee before him. "That is how it is referred to, by law, anyway."

Dimitri's lips parted in horror. The new Archbishop of the Church of Seiros was a progressive woman, hand-chosen by the Goddess herself. She had made great strides in modernizing the church, but evidently, it had not reached Adrestia yet.

"I... In this day and age? That is... horrible, my lord." He had only intended to embarrass the Count, not actively threaten him with public execution. "Surely, her highness, Lady Edelgard is against such a practice?"

Hubert inclined his head. "Of course. Rather, she partakes freely in the depravity herself." His smile grew. "I do not tell you this to give you some ammunition against Lady Edelgard. She would be quite safe if you were to choose to expose her... And then you would be a target."

The threats weren't really necessary, but Dimitri got the feeling it was the only way Hubert could feel in control.

"I am entirely unwilling to give over any of Lady Edelgard's assets to you, even if not doing so costs me my neck... Or Count Aegir's." He folded his legs calmly as if they were discussing the weather over tea rather than the willing execution of himself and his... Partner? It was so hard to know what title to give their strange dynamic. "However, I may be able to find ways to buy your silence all the same. You see, the Vestra household has its own assets. A certain, shall we say...  _ private  _ business venture." He tapped his fingers together in a steeple, eyeing Dimitri carefully. "There are many things you desire. I can help you achieve those goals."

"Go on," Dimitri said, gesturing. He didn't want to be caught apologizing to his enemy, Goddess forbid it. It would show too much weakness to do so. He needed to still have the threat. "What business does your family dabble in?"

"My entire family is dead, Lord Blaiddyd. By my own hands," Hubert said as if it didn’t matter much. "After such a dismal experience, I thought it best to hire different hands. Ones suited for such work. I leave the rather fun work for myself, of course." He looked down his pale nose at Dimitri. "Assassins, thieves, informants... This is my game. One I am rather fond of."

Dimitri swallowed tightly. He had always heard that there was a minor noble family that died in a terrible accident... He would need to do his own research later. "As it happens... I have no need to dispose of anyone at the moment." But he trailed off. "Have you dealings in Almyra?"

Hubert blinked exactly once, and it occurred to Dimitri that he'd not seen him do it before now. "I have dealings everywhere, Lord Blaiddyd."

"I'm missing an operative there. It is of utmost importance his is located and kept safe. In exchange for my silence to the press, I wish for you to find him, and see to it that his mission is completed, and my operative brought safely home." Getting Sylvain home was worth any cost. He would not throw his friend's life down for profit.

Hubert raised just one black brow. "Interesting," he said quietly, his whole body somehow unmoving. "That is... Quite a small order for the information you have to manipulate me."

"I did not say that was the only thing to still my tongue. Just the only thing for  _ now." _ Dimitri folded his arms. "I also want you to push your efforts into finding who murdered Lambert and Patricia Blaiddyd, as well as Glenn Fraldarius."

And many more, he was sure.

Hubert's smile was that of a serpent with a bird trapped in its hypnotic gaze. It was unsettling to be sure, given that Dimitri was the one in control at the moment. "How is it that you can be so naive and maintain your mortal status? Ah, well. If that is the totality of it, I see no issue. However, I will not be bringing Lady Edelgard into this." He stood at once. "You will extend our stay, I trust?"

"Yes. Though you should know that just because you will one day leave Faerghus, does not mean my tongue is permanently stilled." He narrowed his remaining eye, imperious indeed, his hands folded on his lap, chin high. His back was strained, and his neck hurt, far more used to staring down at the floor.

Hubert swept back the rather ominous cape he wore and bowed deeply, though his eyes never left Dimitri's own. "Then I shall require much to do the work you ask. I will assume the technology will find its way into my apartments."

He stalked off to find Ferdinand.

Dimitri watched their backs as they departed, and turned once, to Dedue.

"See to it that he is supplied with what he needs. And then... do not let them leave."

Dedue's eyes widened for a moment, then he bowed. "Very well. As you command, Master Blaiddyd."

Having dispatched Dedue, Dimitri leaned back into his chair, placing his face in his hand. He searched his phone, as if willing news to appear on Sylvain.

  
  
  


Ferdinand was not far, worriedly scrolling through his phone. "Hubert, if the documents are signed, we really should get back to the Empire..."

Hubert shook his head. "We will be staying," he said sharply, not caring to elaborate as he suddenly took Ferdinand's upper arm and steered him to the car rather forcefully.

"Ouch," Hubert!" He said, before being stuffed into the car without much explanation. "What has gotten  _ into  _ you!?"

Hubert said nothing, did not respond as he got into the car after him, just staring forward. But his hand, his tight grip didn't leave Ferdinand's arm at all. He was scared. Only Ferdinand, after so many years, could see it.

Ferdinand raised his voice, not about to be cowed. "You're hurting me. Let go. Let go and we can talk." He had always known Hubert as a glass cannon--eager to fire shots, to do devastating damage, yet unable to take it when it was turned back toward him. "Hubert." He fixed his golden eyes on him, his usual cheery smile darkened, mouth a hard line.

Hubert let go. He let go but he gave the most imperceptible shake of his head, eyes turning on the driver.  _ Not here.  _ He could kill the driver. He could do it easily. It would almost be laughable. He could commandeer the car, he could go off route, he knew how...

But then what? He had contacts, but he could not trust any of them while entrenched in enemy territory.

Ferdinand sat back in the fine leather, hugging himself a little. Something was terribly wrong here, and they were far, far from home. Were they going to their accommodations? Or somewhere far more sinister?

Hubert wondered just how far Dimitri would go. Would he keep his word? Or were they going to some disgusting warehouse to be tied up and held? He'd been through worse. "Where are you taking us?" he snapped at the driver.

"To the Tailtean Arms, my Lord." The same sweet voice over the phone.

"Ah, you must be Ashe," Ferdinand said, trying to keep his demeanor upbeat, for both of their sakes. "That was the same loft apartment building we were in last night?"

"That's right. The top floor is owned by the Blaiddyds. That's nice digs!" Ashe said. He sounded so young, it was unlikely he could murder them both.

Hubert did not relax even then. Though it  _ did _ seem as though the route was familiar. Goddess, he'd not felt so helpless in years. Decades. And this time... This time, his behavior had put Ferdinand at risk as well. He slumped back in his seat, breaking into a cold sweat. He had no doubt the King of Faerghus had a stranglehold on all of his tech. He'd not be able to get a message out. He'd not be able to do anything but be at his mercy.

He hadn't even wanted to go to that stupid opera.

Ferdinand, in the quiet of the back seat, slipped his hand between their thighs, lacing their fingers under their coats. He squeezed tightly, sinking neat nails into the back of Hubert's knuckles. He said nothing, however, keeping his face forward, jaw tight. It was the expression of a man used to keeping up appearances to keep people he cared for safe.

Hubert could only weakly return the gesture. Ferdinand had  _ compromised  _ him, the damned fool, made him weak, _ soft.  _

He would not give it up for anything.

They pulled in; indeed it was the same loft they'd been in before. That was a small relief.

Ashe, a sprightly thing with freckles and a winning smile, parked the car to show them to their floor, chatting about Fhirdiad culture, though it washed over them like white noise. Perhaps it was meant to, as too soon, the elevator came to a stop at their dedicated loft.

The elevator let out into the loft, a floor that was all their own, with stunning views of the city in the floor-to-ceiling windows from every angle. There were two bedrooms, but most of the space was utterly open, exposed to the outdoors, though that seemed fine. After all, who was out there to look at them but sky?

"Enjoy your stay!" Ashe chirped, as the elevator doors shut.

"Oh! Wait!" Ferdinand turned, but the elevator car was already whirring downstairs. He clicked his tongue in distaste, and pressed the call button again. "I'll just go down, I meant to ask about dinner arrangements."

The elevator did not come.

"What in the world?" Ferdinand tapped the button a few times, before finally grumbling to pull at the stairwell door, which refused to budge.

Hubert watched him flit about like an angry butterfly, so colorful and determined. He wanted to seize him, he wanted to tear sense into him, shout.  _ Do you not understand we're prisoners? _ Instead, he sank into a comfortable armchair and said nothing, turning his eyes to the window.

Outside was the perpetual cloudy, windy atmosphere of a Fhirdiad day, where the sky thought about raining, but hadn't decided yet. Below the dizzying height of the skyscraper, high end shoppers scuttled about their inconsequential errands, tiny ants far below.

Their situation was dawning on Ferdinand, who steeled up his shoulders and marched about, searching walls and corners for bugs. How strangely industrious of him.

"Enough," Hubert finally sighed, wishing he would just sit down for a moment. "Their technology far surpasses that of Adrestia. You won't find wires or microchips."

Ferdinand threw up both hands. "Hubert, we can't just  _ sit  _ here and--and be their prisoners, we don't have to take this! Why would they do this when we’ve already signed?" he huffed, finally collapsing into a chair, his arms folded, heel bouncing. "This is--just-- _ inhospitable." _

Hubert glared at him. Always moving, never still. "Ferdinand," he snarled, not fully opening his mouth, just hissing through his teeth. "Must you be so blinded by your own frenzy? They have us cornered. Lord Blaiddyd has taken pictures of us at the opera."

Ferdinand went very still then, still as the grave, as all of the rosiness of his cheeks vanished, running down his neck to pool at his feet. Hubert regretted that he had wanted this.

"Pictures of-- us," Ferdinand said quietly. "Together."

Now he knew what was at stake. He slouched forward, wove those fingers into his hair and knotted. "What--what did you pay him?"

"Nothing I could not afford to give." Obviously, by using his own pronoun, he hadn't involved Lady Edelgard. There were too many eyes on her. They would know. And then they'd be hunted down as traitors and blasphemers.

The chair creaked, and Ferdinand came to Hubert, knelt before him with that damned earnest face and those pursed, anxious lips.

"What did you give him, Hubert?" Each word was like the snap of a whip.

Hubert scowled, curling his lip. He wanted to kick (kiss) this sad excuse for sunny human garbage. 

"Nothing yet. I need monitors to accomplish what he desires from here," he snapped, arms tightly crossed, protecting his chest. "But I promised him the full might of my Household." As if he'd had any choice. Everything he had, everything he ever had, including his life and Ferdinand... they were in Dimitri's hands now.

Ferdinand furtively glanced around them. Damn it all. "This is my fault," he said stupidly, taking a breath in. "I--I can claim I coerced you, then--only one of us would be charged."

Hubert's savage eyes bored into Ferdinand's bleached skull. "You absolute idiot... What exactly would that accomplish, except serve to  _ humiliate  _ me for being coerced?" He tightened his arms across his chest, refusing to reach for him. Not like this. Not so soft.

Ferdinand jerked his jaw back. "At least let me take responsibility!" he snapped, falling back on his heels. He outranked Hubert in some ways, at least in prestige. It would be easy to convince people that he had coerced Hubert, his inferior.

At least, to all who didn't know a thing about Hubert von Vestra and knew he couldn't be coerced into anything.

"What can I do?" he said, the bravado finally beginning to crack away into hopelessness.

"You  _ will  _ sit back and let me handle this," Hubert said finally, daring to look into those bright eyes, hating to see him crack this way, under anyone else but him. "It is no fault of yours that I succumbed to such... frivolities. I am the one to blame."

"Is it a frivolity if one feels like they need it to breathe?" Poetic and dramatic as ever, but coming from him... it felt so sincere. Still, Ferdinand rose and wandered to the kitchens, where they had been left plenty of gourmet provisions. Ferdinand counted them up, trying to determine from the fullness of the cabinets how long the Blaiddyds intended to keep them. It seemed for at least quite a while.

At least they had wine. 

He wrestled with it, and eventually got it open to pour himself--and Hubert--a glass, though he left the latter for him to find himself.

Hubert could not look at him. Shame was not an emotion he was accustomed to, and feeling it now when surrounded by Blaiddyd walls and guns was not a winning combination. He wanted to be comforted, soothed by that idiot's poeticism and drama, but he was afraid, afraid that there would be more ammunition to use against them. He took his gloves off, a sure sign of his distress, and rubbed his temples slowly.

Hubert’s hands were nearly black, the mark of wicked magic, born into those with the leftover powers of the days of old. Dark magic, the forbidden arcanum, which Hubert had a knack for... if you could call possessing and honing a rare, ancient evil a 'knack.' And his black hands were the mark of this blasphemy.

Finally, the clouds outside burst, and a heavy rain, near an icy sleet, began to fall on the city, streaking the windows and darkening the concrete and asphalt. There was no thunder--Fhirdiad was not dramatic enough for thunder, it seemed, just a constant, miserable rain; it seemed to suit the city somehow.

Ferdinand's broad shoulders cut against the grey as he swirled his wine in a glass finally sipping--then drinking it all down. Not the most refined for a noble like himself, but the stress and panic was obvious, if reigned in by manners.

Hubert was distressed, maddened by Ferdinand's silence. He would almost give anything to listen to him chatter, even if to complain about the rain. Silence did not suit someone like Ferdinand at all. He wanted to throttle him, make him say something.

"You will not be harmed," was all he could think to say that might reassure him. "Lord Blaiddyd is too soft for such things." Although apparently not too soft to threaten them with execution.

"Too soft for what?" Ferdinand asked bitterly. "Keeping foreign diplomats in a gilded cage, holding the threat of excommunication and execution over them?"

Well, he had pointed it right out, hadn't he? "You will not be harmed," Hubert said again, more softly, but more dangerously. His hands, so large and thin, sputtered a bit of warning sparks.

Ferdinand sighed, and pressed a fresh glass of wine into his black hands. "Stop," he said, "You need to conserve your energy. Don't waste it on proving a point."

Hubert glared, clutching the wine in hand. "Must you be so insufferable  _ now?" _ he hissed. "I assure you, I do not need your coddling."

With a rustle of red hair, Ferdinand turned his head from him, sticking the glass he had drained himself into the sink with a loud clink. He disappeared into one of the bedrooms, the storm picking up outside. His fine shoes were wrestled off, and he lay, fully clothed, to burrow his face in the pillow. How could he have been so stupid, so selfish?

An hour later, and a sing-song tone rang through the loft--the doorbell.

Hubert stood quickly to receive the intruders of their self-loathing. One minute, still as stone, the next, smooth and lithe like the snake he was so often accused of portraying. He didn't want Ferdinand to go to the door; he didn't forget his gloves.

There was no one there--just a cart of high-speed servers, monitors, and satellite connections. The elevator door chimed. 

There was plenty of room in the loft to set up; the enormous LCD television could be used as a monitor, and the place was wired with fiberoptic cables; Hubert would have all he needed to work and more. Still, he was more than disgruntled. He couldn't very well turn his displeasure to machinery. He wanted to shout at  _ someone. _ But there was no one around to hear it but Ferdinand, who deserved it the least.

Hubert appeared like a shadow, darkening the doorway of the bedroom that was Ferdinand's hiding place.

"I still have assets to negotiate for your release," he said quietly.

Ferdinand, a little bit buzzed from the wine he had blitzed, was still hiding under the pillow. "No, I'm not leaving you here with those... those awful barbarians. No. I'm going to stay as this is my fault and I should do the noble and proper thing here and stay."

It was mostly muffled into the pillow. For a moment, Hubert thought how easy it would be to just push down on it and silence him. Instead, he just narrowed his eyes. "So dramatic. I do not require your permission, I merely thought a warning would be appropriate. So do not unpack."

Ferdinand swatted in his direction and curled himself up into a ball, his back to him. "You misunderstand me," he mumbled. "I'm. Not. Leaving. Hubert."

Hubert could feel that leashed irritation in him becoming fury. No one but Ferdinand could make him rise to such anger so quickly. He laughed, and it was sour and darkened the air about him. "As if you could  _ possibly  _ have a choice," he continued. If push came to shove, Hubert could rattle Ferdinand's very mind to manipulate him to his will. He would keep him safe, whether he liked it or not.

Ferdinand knew that expression well, and braced himself, shoulders back, chin raised. He was not a small nor willowy man; he exercised regularly, rode and trained fine horses, and kept his body in excellent shape. Even so, that was no match for dark magic.

Hubert hesitated, something he rarely--if ever--was known to do. He'd expected Ferdinand to fight back. That's what he always did. But there'd be little use in arcane manipulation now, when he hadn't struck the deal yet.

He turned away. "Prepare your things," was all he said before striding into the other room.

"No," Ferdinand said stubbornly, and crossed his ankles on the bed to make his point. He wasn't going anywhere.

Hubert ignored him, stubborn ass that he was. He just set about with the cords and wires until he had a passable setup in the front room. Honestly, he hated how much better it looked than his own office in Adrestia. Faerghus really was unmatched when it came to tech. So sleek and efficient.

It felt somewhat comforting to get behind the screens and be a faceless drone for a while.

At some point, there was the sound of some puttering about, and a hot cup of coffee, black as they come, was set by his keyboard.

"I'll see about dinner. Surely they can't deny us some take away."

Hubert just hummed back in response, didn't look at him. He knew that to Ferdinand, these were just numbers on a screen, patterns and threads he could not decipher, but there was still guilt. So many feelings long buried and abandoned that Ferdinand had almost  _ literally  _ stabbed out of him. (Once, Ferdinand had been an enemy of Lady Edelgard, and therefore, an enemy of his.)

Why did he feel that wound so succinctly now, as if the sword was thrust into his breast still? Hubert suspected a gun wound would have had less presence. But no, as many Adrestian nobles believed, the sword was the most elegant killing machine. A gun was distasteful.

Not to mention expensive. They relied on supplies from Dagda and Faerghus for more modern weapons.

But a bullet wound, shot even at close range, could not bear the weight of the strange intimacy of death which hovered between the sweaty bodies locked in the grip of combat. Hubert had always thought so. And seeing the man then, his blade buried just below his lungs, seeing Ferdinand grimace with the impossible burden of taking his life...

Well, that was of course when Hubert fell in love with him.

It was hard to think of Ferdinand being that same man now, as he milled around their posh prison, seeking what he could find and use. When he spoke on the phone to Ashe, it was all saccharine sweetness, thinly covering fury.

“Hello Ashe. Seeing as we are... detained—for our safety, of course, of course—seeing as we are detained, are we allowed, perhaps, to order food, or are we left with whatever gruel Lord Blaiddyd saw fit to give us?”

It was that demanding nature wrapped in good manners that sank tenterhooks into Hubert’s heart, so rarely coming to the surface under his optimism.

“Very good. Yes, that’s fine. Give Lord Blaiddyd my highest thanks for his generosity.” Each word was dripping with unfamiliar sarcasm, and he threw the phone onto the bed with a disgusted huff.

Hubert found his fingers still in his work, his pale, pointed chin turned ever so slightly towards Ferdinand.

"When they arrive with dinner, prepare to leave with them," he said coolly.

To be honest, he hadn't asked yet. He... Didn't want him to leave, to be alone. Well, no. Being alone was how he worked best. In fact, it was usually preferable. But Ferdinand was... Loathsome as it was to admit, an exception to this otherwise ironclad rule. 

  
  


**HUBERT VON VESTRA**

Lord Blaiddyd, I think it best we negotiate for Count Aegir's release as well.

**DIMITRI ALEXANDRE BLAIDDYD**

Absolutely out of the question.

Consider him collateral.

  
  


Ferdinand waved him off, and took to studying the rainy city view, taking a halfhearted photo on his phone.

Hubert put his head in his hands, temporarily overwhelmed, watching Ferdinand take pictures of the absolutely dismal weather. It was... Cute somehow. Like a puppy staring at snow for the first time. 

Ugh. How he  _ hated  _ the feeling of cute.

  
  


**HUBERT VON VESTRA**

Nothing is 'out of the question.'

Everything is priced.

What is it that you desire, Lord Blaiddyd?

I can manufacture nearly any reality from here.

**DIMITRI ALEXANDRE BLAIDDYD**

Clearly Count Aegir is more valuable here than elsewhere.

I’d rather keep him in sight.

It surprises me that you would not want the same thing. Perhaps I misjudged your relationship.

Or is he not dear to you?

  
  


Ferdinand sank on the couch, so unnaturally deflated for him.

Hubert flinched, but he masked it well. Of course he wanted Ferdinand near. He was the only blasted one he could  _ tolerate  _ aside from Lady Edelgard.

  
  


**HUBERT VON VESTRA**

Lord Blaiddyd, I can assure you that you likely HAVE misjudged our relationship.

You cannot begin to fathom the depths of my loathing for this topic.

But you hold my weakness. Let him go. Do not make me resort to begging; I will not.

**DIMITRI ALEXANDRE BLAIDDYD**

What will you give for his release?

  
  


Ferdinand settled into the sofa, shutting his eyes, brow furrowed in frustration. It was very hard for him to be still, but he couldn't think of much else to do.

Hubert was desperate. He had already promised the full weight of his Household. Aside from Lady Edelgard's assets, he only had one thing to give.

He knew Lady Edelgard would understand.

  
  


It was Dedue who was there to counsel Dimitri at the moment. He looked up, the screen painting his scars white in the dim room.

"Master Blaiddyd..." he said quietly. "It's a good offer. Having Count Vestra's full powers for a year might help you achieve your goals."

After all, Hubert had spent much longer than a year being someone's captive, and in far worse conditions.

Dimitri nodded. "Very well. See to it that Count Aegir is safely transported home, with our apologies for the inconvenience." As if detaining him ‘indefinitely’ was an inconvenience. Dimitri tucked the phone into his jacket.

  
  


**DIMITRI ALEXANDRE BLAIDDYD**

Done. Make sure he is ready for departure.

  
  


Hubert put the phone down. It was done. So why wasn't he relieved?

Ferdinand heard only the rustle of cloth as Hubert's shadow fell over his tired body.

"Do you trust me, Ferdinand?" So the snake asked the pretty bird.

"Mostly," Ferdinand said, opening one eye, "About as far as I could throw you, Hubert." Given Ferdinand's physique, that was not a small distance.

Hubert merely smiled. "That is most unwise."

He leaned over him, looming, dark, terrifying. But it was clear, if to no one else but Ferdinand, what he was aiming for. As if Ferdinand were glass, Hubert kissed him. It was always soft at the start with him, but then devolved into something more violent and _ rotten. _

Ferdinand lifted his chin, so relieved for the kiss that his body unfurled some, red lashes tickling Hubert's pale face. He held onto his cheeks, cupping hands sliding down to his neck.

Hubert allowed it. He would... indulge him for however long it was before Ashe came to collect him. He wouldn't see him for a year, after all. His gloved hands came up to caress that pouting cheek.

Ferdinand had no idea this was their last kiss--he was too busy pouting, after all, and leaned up into his lips, eager for his attention, despite himself. Odd. Hubert normally would have been more aggressive by now. He enjoyed seeing Ferdinand in bonds, generally... not that they'd brought any here.

To make up for it, he painfully squeezed Ferdinand's upper arm--the muscle there was so firm, his skin so rosy, that when he squeezed, Ferdinand looked almost plump, like a ripe fruit to be _ devoured. _

Ferdinand gasped, clasping onto his shirt, pulling him tighter to his breast. It was a welcome treat whenever Hubert was this tender--the times of which he could count on one hand, in their whole relationship.

Faintly, Hubert's phone buzzed, unheard in their embrace.

  
  


**LADY EDELGARD**

I finally have located somewhere with signal. It's surprisingly scant in these areas. We've stopped for petrol.

**LADY EDELGARD**

From what I gathered from a very brief message from Lord Blaiddyd, is that you will be staying in Fhirdiad for some time. Is it safe to assume that all is going well there?

**LADY EDELGARD**

We will need to move shortly, please reply with haste.

**LADY EDELGARD**

Very well, I await your answer the next time I can get signal. Be well, Hubert.

  
  


Hubert never neglected his phone. Especially when Lady Edelgard came calling. But he was a bit desperate. He didn't care what all happened to him as long as nothing happened to Ferdinand, but a year without his presence, his cheerful noise, his irritating brightness...

Well, he might have wished for him to disappear at one time.

He pressed him into the leather couch, his knees finally taking purchase by Ferdinand's thighs. Compared with the other Count, Hubert was quite thin. Taller than Ferdinand, but without that muscle that came from joyful exercise, without that flush to his body that came with parading in the sun. 

But he could play with such a body, right here in front of him.

Ferdinand brightened a little--perhaps buoyed from despair by his eagerness to touch him, which came in fits and starts far between. He cupped his broad hands on the inside of Hubert's knees, hauling him close without so much as a grunt. 

"Goodness," he managed, lips swollen, as he ran those hands, dappled with freckles, up Hubert's thighs to his back, pressing him close. "Whatever is the occasion?"

Hubert frowned at him, his long hair falling over his eyes as he let his weight rest on Ferdinard's lap. "Must there be an _ occasion? _ It isn't as though they don't possess blackmail already."

Ferdinand lay back, looking up at him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. He was delectable. Like a smudge of peach-strawberry parfait. "I suppose they do." He brought Hubert's hand to his chest, letting it linger there.

Hubert had let his hair grow long. Perhaps, in some alternate universe, he hoped it might look like Ferdinand's; lush and curly. But no, it was black and limp, like wet autumn leaves. It was charming in its own way, like some undead creature belonging to an old Adrestian castle. It fell over Hubert's shoulder in subtle waves as Hubert rested his chin, sharp, on Ferdinand's head. "You don't seem to be all that bothered anymore."

"Well, if we're damned already... we can take this time to be together--we can--maybe--"

They had never been able to be intimate. It was too risky. They had romps together, to be certain, heated kisses in hallways, hidden linked hands, secret embraces in alcoves. But they had never actually been with one another. "We--maybe this is a gift."

Hubert laughed in a way that was devoid of honey. "I suppose you must enjoy this... being held against your will, is that right?"

Ferdinand raised a lovely red eyebrow. "It's not as nice as the ropes you tie on me beneath my coat."

It had been a tease at first, a simple rope bracelet, tied tight enough to feel, but easily hidden under his clothing; a reminder. Ferdinand had done the same in return.

"There is something rather exhilarating to be sure. But I think you enjoy watching your prey squirm, you sadist."

"A compliment," Hubert raised his own dark brow at the word. "How generous." He rubbed his gloved fingers over Ferdinand's strong chin and down to his chest, squeezing the prominent muscle beneath his shirt. "What a shame we don't have rope here..."

Ferdinand gave a little gasp, his eyes twinkling, and briefly, a flicker of fear. "They--they could come back," He said, glancing toward the door.

Hubert looked a little annoyed. Indeed, he  _ had  _ told them to come pick up Ferdinand... He wished he had asked for one more day. He could still tease him though.

"As if you would care, you  _ peacock," _ Hubert sneered, digging sharp nails through his shirt, cutting into his skin. "As if you don't  _ strut  _ yourself for display."

Ferdinand moaned at the claws, then clapped a hand over his mouth, startled at the sound he made. "H-Hubert... What on earth?" His eyes were wide. Was this happening now, happening this evening? "I--I haven't even--brought anything, Hubert, you--you're  _ incorrigible!  _ You should have warned me..."

Though the supplies for what they had wanted were hard to find in Adrestia, for obvious reasons, they were readily available in Faerghus.

Hubert rather liked the way Ferdinand could sometimes react like prey. It was a game he enjoyed, cat and mouse, snake and peacock.

"Warned you?" he chuckled, rubbing his free hand beneath his jaw, coaxing him to look up. "What fun is there in that? But if you don't wish it..." He moved to lean away, get off his lap.

_ "No!"  _ Now Ferdinand launched forward, upending Hubert to pin him against the fancy leather sofa, his wrists pressed against his chest, Hubert's legs resting on his thighs. There was only a moment of surprise before Ferdinand pushed him down against the throw pillows to kiss him firmly.

Hubert wheeled his arms as he was thrown back, surprised at his ferocity, and was indeed reminded of the grimace Ferdinand made as he punctured Hubert’s flesh with the blade.

His hands crawled up Ferdinand's back, reaching the back of his neck, yanking his hair.

Ferdinand was nothing if not an enthusiastic lover, coating him in kisses, running his hands through his hair. His thumbs rubbed circles on his hollow cheeks, their teeth clashing together as he sank his weight against Hubert, keeping him from escape.

Hubert, for his part, allowed it for a while, feeling his thighs pressed apart and hissing against Ferdinand's teeth. But ever so slowly, the discomfort Ferdinand felt of having his hair pulled and his shoulder scratched, became pain as Hubert pulled harder and dug his nails deeper.

It was a bit like a curious retriever trying to greet a snake, with all the wriggling and hissing Hubert was doing. Finally he could not fight against the rough yanking on his hair, and allowed Hubert to pull his head back with a cry.

Hubert wanted to leave him a parting gift, something he might perhaps remember him by. He sank his teeth brutally into Ferdinand's throat. Enough to draw blood, like a vampire of legend, grinning against his flesh as he licked it from his lips.

"You are so beautiful when you  _ contort  _ in pain and cry," Hubert laughed against the bruised hollow of his throat.

Ferdinand’s cries quieted, and he sank down, losing that renowned strength to just pool onto his chest like melted caramel. "You _ monster," _ he said, but it was mostly a giggle, and partly a groan of astonishment.

"Allegedly," Hubert replied. He'd been called much worse than that. His gloves deepened their exploration, running over his hips and thighs, marveling at the squeeze of them. Ferdinand had a right to strut. He was certainly something to look at, to touch. He was plush, to be sure, with much to squeeze and pinch, his muscles giving a spring back to his fingertips.

Ferdinand rumbled low in his chest. How long ago had he ordered that Brigidian food? How long did they have? He wanted to keep him forever.

As if on cue, the elevator chimed. Hubert's hands went stiff, then fell to his sides. He supposed that meant Lord Blaiddyd would be here to collect Ferdinand as well. With an exhale of frustration, he sat up, pushing Ferdinand away from him. "I'll get it."

Ferdinand sat up, trying to cover the trickling spot on his neck. "A--ahaha, I'm starving, thank  _ goodness,”  _ he said, theatrically loud, for an absent audience. There was no need to perform to cover up what they had just done, and yet he was just dramatic enough to do so.

Hubert rolled his eyes, but he crossed the room swiftly as the elevator rolled open. He ignored the warning barrel of Ingrid's gun. "Well?" he snapped, demanding. "Are you here to collect?"

"Collect?" Ferdinand asked behind him--had Hubert been serious?

"Yes, and we have brought your dinner as well," Ashe said in that same singsong. "I am also available to cook for you if you so choose--"

"Wait, collect  _ whom?" _

"You'll be heading home, right away, Count Aegir." The broad stance Ingrid was giving with her shoulders told him it would be a fight if he tried to resist her.

Hubert stepped aside, ignoring the food, and scowled. "I told you that you did not have a say in the matter," he snapped.

"So what was that on the couch then?” Ferdinand demanded. “We--we can stay here for a while, we can be safe!"

Ashe inched a little behind Ingrid, not sure what to make of this situation. In turn, she stood stiff and professional, still as a statue, even while holding a bag of fragrant takeout.

"You made some deal for me, didn't you?" Ferdinand snapped.

Hubert crossed his arms, eyes catching on the drip of blood on Ferdinand's neck.  _ "Must _ you be dramatic? I have secured your freedom, that is all you need worry about. Do not be stubborn."

"I don't want to leave you here in this... this cold, wet,  _ cruel  _ place!" Ferdinand huffed, hands on his hips. The answer with Ferdinand was always yes when there was a chance to be dramatic. Ingrid and Ashe exchanged glances.

Hubert lifted his hand. "Then you leave me no choice."

He wasn't about to make Ferdinand stay here and suffer the year with him. Ferdinand hardly had time to brace himself before he was utterly blasted backwards, stumbling against the armchair from the force of the dark magic Hubert unleashed.

He wasn't unconscious, but he couldn't lift his limbs, even his hand.

Hubert secured his glove again. "You may have to carry him," he said quietly.

Ferdinand was utterly stunned. _ "W-what have you done!?" _ He could barely move his jaw, his words slurred.

Ashe and Ingrid were amazed; they'd never seen dark magic like that up close. "H-How long does it last?" Ashe asked, a bit afraid to try and pick Ferdinand up, lest he come to suddenly.

"For someone like him, perhaps an hour or two," Hubert said simply, looking away as if Ferdinand meant nothing to him. "So be quick about getting him on a plane."

"Hubert," Ferdinand said, his voice growing damp. He could not move, and he could not stop tears from inching forward, rolling down his cheeks sideways. "Hubert--don't--don't throw me out, you  _ wretched  _ man, don't take this all on yourself!"

Ashe and Ingrid had bustled to set the dinner for two on the counter and gather up Ferdinand's little carry-on bag. They had only expected to stay a while, after all.

Hubert could not help but look back, watch as they carried him away. How delicious were those tears over those pinkened cheeks. But he couldn't stop what he'd set in motion.

"It is already done. It is only a year, Count Aegir, don't be so melodramatic."

"A  _ year?" _ It was croaked, but strangely small, strangely meek for a man like him. Ashe held his feet while Ingrid grasped his broad shoulders, carrying Ferdinand out like a drunken student after a kegger. It was decidedly inelegant, undignified. His chin couldn't even wobble as he whispered, "How could you?" before the doors shut on the three of them, leaving Hubert with the smell of cumin and tumeric.

Hubert sagged immediately. Wanted to change his mind. But he couldn't. He just looked away. He didn't say goodbye. It was only a year. What was Ferdinand getting so worked up about?

He'd only have his dreams of him for now.

  
  
  
  


Dimitri paced side to side. He had the Empire's best shadow at his disposal for an entire year. What could he accomplish? Almyra could be neatly wrapped up, Sylvain safely home and Claude fully in his debt within a month. And his revenge... It would be sweet, finally complete. He shivered with expectant delight, licking his lips. Soon...Soon...

All he had to do was break some hearts.

Dimitri paused then, turning toward the sofa, where Felix was bunched up on one side, looking decidedly... puny, which was unlike him.

Why did breaking someone's heart for justice feel so--wrong?

_ Don't be a coward now,  _ his father rasped against the back of his neck, making his small hairs stand on end. _ Not when you're so close, you foolish boy. _

_ How could you think to put these strangers before us? _ his stepmother wept.

Felix was just playing a game on his phone, ignoring the boar's pacing. He had his neck tucked into the blue scarf (Dimitri's scarf) all the way up to his nose because he actually was cold for once. He felt weak, his throat sore. He hadn't been able to eat all day and he still felt a bit lightheaded from the stranglehold of Dimitri's grip.

He felt the beast’s eyes on him and swallowed, which hurt, and glanced up, the mindless distraction of the game forgotten.

Dimitri glanced anxiously at the ground, suddenly the boy who had shared secrets with Felix on the swingset in fading sunlight. He disappeared for a moment--always a dangerous thing, and returned with a heavy quilt from the closet. It was a strange item, considering the rest of the household. The penthouse was sleek and modern, with only the finest appointments, but this quilt was hand-sewn, homespun. He threw it over Felix, a bit awkward, like someone not used to being cared for or caring for someone else, but trying.

"I'll be in the next room with Dedue," he said simply, and hustled into the next room.

It only took a few broken hearts.

Felix was relieved he had returned with a quilt, honestly. It could have been anything. Once, Dimitri had thrown a fire extinguisher at him after ripping it out of the wall. He relaxed (a fraction) and watched Dimitri disappear into the living room, where Dedue was ironing more of his clothing.

He supposed he should be grateful that Dedue had offered to stay the night. He wasn't sure he could handle another attack.

Dedue looked up as Dimitri came in with a face shadowed by ghosts. "Master Blaiddyd, I have prepared tea if you would like." Only the finest, from Adrestia. "It will help you to sleep."

"Thank you, Dedue." Dimitri settled down wearily into the armchair, cradling the cup in both hands. He watched Dedue for a moment, his one eye older than it had any right to be. "Dedue," he asked, "You resent me, don't you?"

Dedue had heard this a thousand times before, so it wasn't a surprise. But it wasn't good either. He sat the iron down and wiped his hands once on his apron.

"Of course not, Master Blaiddyd. I live to serve you."

Lambert had rescued Dedue from some coup in another country. But before he'd been sent to an orphanage, it was Dimitri who begged his father to let him stay. Still, on the day of the tragedy, he had barely remembered him. It had been many years before that.

Dimitri turned his face toward Dedue, his face suddenly so, so young around the eye that bore so much age and pain. He was twenty-two--in many ways, still a child, though he had no right to be after the tragedy. His long, skinny legs folded up under him, and he hunched in on himself, voice so quiet in the steam of the tea.

"I want to go home," he told him, but it was very clear he didn't mean the white house up to the north.

Dedue switched the iron off. He didn't think he'd be getting any more done tonight, and that was fine. What he said was true; he lived to serve him.

He approached the armchair carefully and knelt in front of Dimitri, like a mountain bowing its head. "Master Blaiddyd," he said carefully, gently, looking into his eye for signs that Dimitri was not alone.

Tears welled up behind the blue and he scrunched one side of his face. The tear duct on his right side had been removed, but every now and then, it acted up with phantom need. He was never alone in the way he wanted to be. Not alone with himself.

He let a few run down his cheeks as he drank deeply from the tea.

"I wish I could release you all," he said quietly. "I am too great a burden to carry."

And really, Dedue knew it was pointless to tell him he was not. He could only speak for himself anyhow, and he was sure Felix would say the opposite.

"None of us would wish to be released," he said gently because that, at least, was true. He rested a large hand over Dimitri's on the teacup.

Dimitri bowed his head over their joined hands, inadvertently bumping his head against Dedue's chin. His vision began to swim, and his thoughts became hazy. "What is... what is this tea?" Chamomile, yes; but his sleeping medication had been mixed in. Easier to digest than a harsh pill, dry-swallowed.

Dedue stood quietly. "It is chamomile, Master Blaiddyd. It will help you to sleep." He was prepared to help him to bed, removing his apron and laying it neatly over the ironing board, careful of the cooling iron. He offered him a large hand. "Shall I help you to bed?"

Dimitri took his hand, shocked at how wobbly his legs were, like a newborn foal. His hands reeled Dedue closer, leaning on his arm.

It was hard to remember his shoes being taken, his belt, lost in a haze. He just felt patient, kind hands gently managing him, helping his arms in and out of sleeves.

Finally, he asked, too dizzy to catch himself. "Glenn?"

Dedue's grip tightened to keep him steady, tightened to keep him stable when he heard the name repeated so, so often. How often had Felix had to hear it, Dedue wondered? "Master Blaiddyd... come to bed."

Felix stood up, hearing them move, hearing the hallucinations begin. He was prepared if need be, but Dedue was here. Surely he could keep him under control. He watched Dimitri stumble in, Dedue's hands guiding him. He was shockingly pliant. It was like watching a lion behave like a kitten as he was led into his bed, his feet lifted under the covers. His hands reached out and nabbed Dedue's with a little too much force, only to soften, feeling his big, rough palms.

"Dedue," he said, trying to ground himself.

The eyepatch was taken and set on the nightstand, his hair loosened, falling around him messily. A last-ditch effort of his brain asserting itself over the drugs made him lurch forward, but he was caught in Dedue's arm, pushed back down.

"We-- we need to get Sylvain home--"

"Sylvain is in good hands," Dedue lied to him smoothly. They didn't have any idea where Sylvain was, Claude had been feeding information to Dedue all day.  _ No news is good news _ was what he'd said to Dimitri, but he kept his loyal servants in the loop, knowing they wouldn't tell.

Honestly, with each passing minute that they didn't find him, even flippant Claude was growing grim.

Finally that was what felled the beast. He was asleep, heavy and boneless, nothing but dead weight in Dedue's hands. Dedue carefully sank him into the pillow, draped the covers over one bony shoulder. He sighed, sitting back in the chair positioned by the bed, scrubbed at his eyes.

"Goddess of this land, watch over your son," he murmured. It seemed She had been negligent for quite some time.

Felix appeared in the open doorway. Dedue had rarely seen him look so small, but the scarf was off and the bruises were as black as Dedue had imagined they would be when he first saw them turn an angry red.

"If he's asleep, you can go," Felix nodded to him. They didn't often get along, but he didn't have any personal slight against Dedue. "The pills keep him down." And Dedue really did need to seek out Ingrid, talk to her about the situation in Almyra, and their new... guest.

"You are in pain," Dedue said, pointing out the obvious. "Should he wake, you would not be able to handle him by yourself." Still... he had spent his last waking moment worrying after Sylvain. Perhaps he could take that concern from his shoulders. And his sleeping pills were powerful enough to down a horse.

Felix scowled and crossed his arms. "I'm still alive after all he's managed to do. Don't fucking patronize me."

Dedue’s eyes danced back and forth from the tiny, furious Felix and Dimitri, out like a light, finally seeming somewhat at peace in his sleep. Just... a few hours. He would sleep for a few hours.

"As you command," he said, and departed, leaving Felix alone with the slumbering beast.

Felix waited until he was gone to let the sharpness of his shoulders fade and slumped against the wall. His hands trembled as they fought through the tangled mess of his hair. He needed a shower. Perhaps he should have kept Dedue around until he took one but... the pills usually worked well enough.

Usually. Like hell Felix was going to tell anyone that sometimes they wore off like magic.

He stepped out of his shoes and shed his suit. He'd not undressed since the night before, and it felt good to peel it off like a second, uncomfortable skin. His sword was set aside, across the sink where it wouldn't get wet and the room filled with steam.

The hot water stung his neck like a collar of wasps. He hissed and shuddered, but it felt relieving too, like burning away the memory.

As if he could ever forget the murderous look in Dimitri's eyes, his hands clamped over his throat, crushing his windpipe, lifting him off the ground. Compared to Dimitri, he didn't weigh that much, but he was still a fully grown man and even Sylvain had a bit of trouble lifting him fully.

But Dimitri was not a man at all. Felix knew that.

Dimitri's sleeping breaths were raspy, laced with tar--heard easily from the bathroom, but soon lost in the rush of the shower. 

Once or twice, it looked as if Dimitri's face was in the foggy mirror, a child, his face smeared with his brother's blood as he sobbed, or wild and murderous. As the water stilled, though, by some divine providence, he was still sound asleep. 

Perhaps they were both mad.

Felix's shoulders shook as he braced himself against the mirror, staring back at his own wet body to convince himself he had seen nothing but shadows. He had never been the type to jump at nothing, to reel backwards, wrenched by memory... not before then.

He almost wanted the shadows to return. It was the only way he could see Glenn again, the only way he could see Dimitri, see  _ Mitya  _ again...

Mitya had picked him up over puddles. Mitya had held him in thunderstorms, sandwiched between himself and Glenn, had trembled with him that horrible night, lost in his grief and tears.

Felix had gotten back up. Dimitri never had, sank into his misery.

Now here he was, looking oddly content, so far away from the world. It was a blessed pocket of time indeed, but it would not last, and Felix knew it.

Felix wrapped a towel around his waist and waited to dry. He had an extra suit here, so that was good at least. He plucked the packet of cigarettes from his suit pocket, but his throat screamed just looking at the box. Still, he didn't have to light it. He just needed something to roll between his teeth, to smell, to ease himself.

He fell on the couch, heedless of wetting the leather and let the cigarette rest against his lips. He needed sleep so, so badly at this point, but it wasn't seeking him out, and at this point, he wasn't reaching for it either. 

He flipped on the TV, but he wasn't watching it, just let the noise drown out the sound of the beast's rumbling breath.

It was enough to drown out the sound of the beast’s breath stopping--starting again--the pace changing. The pleasant chatter drowned out the sound of his shambling feet, sleepwalking through the penthouse as if in a dream, haunted, tracing pathways that were not there. It all happened behind Felix's head, and was utterly unnoticeable until lightning finally flashed outside, the rain tempering into a thunderstorm, and illuminated Dimitri's shape behind him.

He was not standing in a menacing pounce, his shoulders and legs apart. He swayed where he stood, faintly growling, whimpering.

Felix jumped and bit down on the cigarette--wholly unpleasant. He whirled from the couch, sword in hand, still sheathed, and stared at Dimitri hard.

"Go back to bed, boar."

Dimitri did not seem swayed, and did something curious indeed. He approached him, climbing over the couch with his long limbs like some kind of strange animal, only to settle down, whining.

He wanted to stay with him. Whatever hindbrain needed company wanted to stay with Felix.

Felix wasn't buying it. He stayed right where he was, knowing that at any moment, Dimitri might leap to his feet, coil his haunches, and attack. He even backed up a step. They had talked about harder drugs to get him to sleep, but in the end, the physicians said they might kill him.

Even Felix,  _ especially  _ Felix, was not willing to take that risk.

Dimitri did a strange thing then, and crept to the floor, curling up on the fine rug like a dog. Just like that, he was back to sleep, curled into a knot, his hair sprawled over Felix's shoe. It was anticlimactic to say the least.

Felix released the breath he had been holding. He was a beast indeed. He kept the sword by his side all the same.

Felix liked dogs. He was a cat person by nature, but he'd grown to love Sylvain's giant mutts and then, slowly grew an appreciation for all of them. He thought Dimitri resembled one right now, curled up on his shoe. Honestly, it was depraved, and he knew it, but a small part of Felix was so relieved to see him acting like a docile dog instead of a rabid cur.

He sat back on the couch with Dimitri at his feet, resisting the urge to pet his golden bangs. Watching him, instead of the flashing screen.

Dimitri stayed asleep that way the entire night, not even stirring when the quilt worked its way down to lay over him instead, wheezing in light snores. Dimitri very much resembled Sylvain's enormous pups, with their clumsy, leggy limbs sprawled out around them. 

It was certainly something for Dedue to find, several hours later. "Master Fraldarius," he whispered, in a rush, "Did he hurt you?"

Felix looked up, exhausted. He didn't even know what was on TV anymore. "No." He had nothing more to offer than that. "What news of Sylvain?"

Dedue had indeed gotten several messages, some of them hopeful. Claude told him some unknown agents bearing the black hand of dark magic had arrived to help in the search. That was all they had, but it was promising to have such power looking for him.

Dedue bent down, scooping the wayward lord into both arms to carry back to bed. He sighed in relief, chin on Dimitri's shoulder as he toted the disaster bundle of a man back to bed. At least, he would wake up there.

"Sleep," Dedue demanded of Felix. "I insist. I'll have him until sunrise."

Felix could only nod. And as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out, likely to be cursed with more shadows. At least he could tell fact from fiction.


	4. Redbird Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain is recovered thanks to Hubert's help... in pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: a little bit of torture, sexual assault (although what they do is technically rape, I'm not classifying it as such because they're searching him, not intending to rape him, but it is forced penetration)

Sylvain was, truly, a spy of the highest caliber. Yes, he was handsome, yes he was charming. But if he was a pretty face and nothing more, he wouldn't have been scooped up by the Blaiddyd family.

He had particularly poor grades, consistent all through school, but his professors started to notice a pattern. A pattern of bad grades and behavior. It was too concise to be an accident. It took a lot of coaxing and a lot of tricking him, but eventually it became clear Sylvain was hiding genius. He was sharp, moreso than even the top students. His attention to detail was absurd, his talent for recognition and problem solving was without peer.

He was immediately thrown into the best schools, which he hated desperately. He didn't thrive there, because he was... well, not _lazy_ per se, but he preferred not to work himself to death. He found himself in a classroom with Dimitri, Ingrid, and Felix. They became fast friends and the rest was history.

It was a particularly bad memory of a soccer practice that was on Sylvain's mind as the burlap bag was ripped off his head. He coughed, because whatever had been inside the bag previously was vile.

"Hey, easy fellas, not the moneymaker..."

The men who surrounded him had covered their faces. "Where is the shipment?" they barked at him, a pistol-- a Blaiddyd pistol, to be precise-- snapping across his throat enough to leave a dent of the handle's design in his skin.

The tiny capsule that Claude had entrusted him with, filled with a potent nerve gas. That’s what they wanted.

Sylvain choked at that, because who wouldn't? He looked up at them best he could, flashing that debonair glimpse of white teeth. "Shipment? You don't mean my _package_ do you?" His hands were tied, but he glanced at his lap so they'd get the joke.

It wasn't that he wasn't afraid. He'd been in situations similar to this. It was just that this was how he coped with fear, with anxiety, with... well, anything. He made dirty jokes and bad innuendos until the problem resolved itself... or just went away for a bit to return at a less convenient time.

There was a snarl, and his chair was knocked backwards, landing him roughly on his back.

"I need weight," one man said.

"How much? Wood?"

"No. Find me iron."

On his back, Sylvain couldn't see their activity. He heard scraping, shouting outside. It seemed he was in a bunker of some kind, the entrance covered by a flap. It sounded like there was a storm outside, scraping the ground and blasting the outsides of the metal room.

"This?"

"Perfect. Back up."

There was a whistle, and an iron pipe, likely pulled from the very fixtures of the bunker, crashed against Sylvain's thigh, utterly shattering his femur on impact.

The sound that tore from Sylvain's throat might have been that of a shrieking hawk. He couldn't even tell the sound came from _him._ All he knew was that someone had set fire to his leg and he'd never walk again, _he'd never walk again..._

Fear had become straight animal noise. He shook so badly he might have vibrated out of his bindings, and a slow, wet stain marked the front of his tight jeans. He'd have been more embarrassed about pissing himself if blinding agony hadn't engulfed him.

Before he could fully comprehend what had become of one leg--there was another strike, and Sylvain could feel his shin just--give way, his leg hanging wrong at the knee. He could feel something--something poking through his jeans that shouldn't be. And not even in a way that could make him laugh darkly.

"There, now you aren't going anywhere, little redbird."

The pipe came away red, and his captor rolled it in his gloved hands thoughtfully. "Where is your delivery?"

Sylvain had training for this, of course. Training for torments like these. But honestly, he'd never had it this rough. He felt the blood lurch out of him and that was all he could hear, his brain racing madly to put some semblance of thought together. To make it stop. To make them stop.

But the words that came out weren't words at all. They were just jumbled-together syllables of panic. His eyes rolled wildly, seeking escapes that didn't exist.

"He's not gonna talk. Strip him, it's probably on him. Not like he's going anywhere."

The bindings were cut, sending Sylvain to the dirty metal floor, where blood mingled with rust. The clothing was cut, pulled away in violent tugs that rolled him side to side, and the fabric was shaken, searching.

"Nothing. Check inside."

Sylvain couldn't think, he could only feel, and it was more than pain, more than torment. He'd spent his life in mindless hedonism and he was no fan of feeling this much all at one time. His legs were not broken, they were _shattered,_ he'd pissed himself, he bled into the dirt and shook so badly that sometimes he would just jerk and twist without even knowing he was going to do it. His body just worked against him. He didn't even hear them, didn't even know what they were doing.

The world spun around him as he was picked up by his hair and thumped over a steel table used for interrogation. Without much warning at all, there were fingers, questing in him, feeling for a capsule, any kind of secret parcel he could've hidden. When he struggled, the pipe crashed down on his back, fracturing two of his ribs. Probably dislocating a bit of his spine.

Sylvain was quite used to being fingered, but so roughly, and with everything else, he felt... Ripped open. He tried to squirm before the pipe fell over him again and he choked out blood because he had screamed so hard it tore his throat open. He stopped trying to get away then, just lay his head down on the cold table and begged for death, for sleep, anything.

Felix's face, Claude's face swam into view and his hands twitched behind his back, reaching for them, begging for help. Begging them to put him to rest.

They were not through.

When their fingers had not found what they wanted, something else entered him. The end of the pipe, probing into his body, a light shone in, looking for anything missing, harsh words on how easily he came apart for them spoken over his head.

In his eyes, there was Dimitri, his Mitya, tiny and sweet, opening his arms for him to come into. _Sylvain,_ he said tenderly. _Come here._

Sylvain was choking now. On what, they couldn't guess, since the pipe was not down his throat. He relied completely on the table to hold him up, lips frothing as a seizure began to take over his brain. He jerked, the pipe tearing sensitive flesh, but he couldn't stop. As his teeth sliced through his tongue, he gurgled helplessly, drowning himself. They couldn't tell if it was intentional or not. But if he killed himself, they'd have lost something valuable.

The rod was yanked out with prejudice, and he was quickly rolled on his side, letting the blood roll out, not allowing him to drown. Dimitri reached forward, hooking tiny fingers on the inside of his mouth-- what was he doing? What was he _doing?_

The men were reaching into his mouth, prodding the back of his throat, over and over, marveling for a moment at his impressive gag reflex, before they pushed harder, ramming into him now, relentless.

This was disgusting. This was sick. Sylvain could see Dimitri from here, pulling his mouth open, shoving his hand in, searching. The stench of piss and blood was almost enough to make him give up what they were looking for. Almost. But they found it soon enough anyway. His body heaved, and he vomited the remains of his last meal, which was mostly wine and artisan bread, onto the table.

His head fell back, too dizzy to even move away from the stinking contents of his stomach. Bile had joined the acrid smell in the room. His consciousness wavered. _Thank goddess,_ was all he could think in clarity.

Now Dimitri was stroking his cheek with damp fingers, speaking so softly.

_Sylvain, Sylvain... Sleep now..._

The men were baffled--the capsule was nowhere on him.

"They sent us a dud," one thundered. There was no reason to keep him alive, save as a bartering chip, and frankly, that opportunity paled in comparison to their fury. The pipe raised up again, slamming over his back, once, twice, catching his upper arm.

All the while, as pain rocked him, his brain seizing, Dimitri crooned to him, a ministering angel.

Sylvain did sleep, finally. It was peaceful, the way he slipped into it, Dimitri touching him gently. But why was Mitya here?

There was a final noise, just one, and his stomach churned. Like a rubbing over his esophagus, he choked out a tiny metal capsule before passing into the coma he so desperately desired.

 _There._ It was snatched up in victory, held aloft over his ruined body as Sylvain fell into the darkness, a mess of blood and broken limbs. Outside there was a different sound, though not one unfamiliar. Helicopter blades. Their contact, likely, ready to pick up the supply.

Then there was something else, a sound like a roar--ungodly, unholy.

Sylvain didn't hear. He didn't hear anything. As they leapt for their weapons, he slid, dead weight, from the table to the ground, slumped over his broken bones. His shirt was torn, his pants around his knees, his hands tangled in tough rope behind his back... An ugly sight for Claude to come in upon.

He was almost dead. By all accounts, he should be.

He didn't hear Claude’s gasps as he rushed to gather him in his arms, to pull him onto his lap, the deafening screams at what he found. The tiny capsule was stashed away first, safe from harm.

_He needs to be straightened out, his spine-- no, don't-- don't move him like that, fuck, his legs... I've got his head-- no, he needs to be on his side, he'll suffocate... oh goddess, he damn near bit his tongue off. Fuck. Fuck! Syl? Syl? It's Cl-- It's Khalid, stay, stay here with me. Stay..._

Sylvain's broken shape was shifted onto a makeshift stretcher, his head pillowed in Claude's palms. _Still. Still... be still..._

Sylvain's brow twitched in a frown. Why did Dimitri sound like Claude? He didn't even think Dimitri knew Claude's real name... He'd only found out after getting really drunk with him that one time. He was able to open one eye. The other was crusted shut with his own bile, having lain in it for so long.

 _"Mitya…?"_ It was so fucking soft that Claude only heard it because of the level of attention he was giving him.

"Hey," Claude tried, stroking his face clear of the grime, of what he couldn't bear thinking about right now, "Hey... Sylvain, hey..." It was all he could manage, as he cradled Sylvain's head in both hands. Over their heads were a blur of white chopper blades, the wind rushing the sand around them. "Hey... Stay with us, stay with me, Syl."

Sylvain’s consciousness swam like a tide, pushing and pulling him this way and that. The woman who had come to their aid looked him over, white magic washing over his legs.

"Hey may get sick again," she warned. She may be using white magic, but her hands were black as pitch.

"I got him. You hear that, Sylvain? I’ve got you. I've got you." His blunt fingers carded through his hair, gently turning his face to his side. "His tongue--get his tongue."

Sleep tugged on him, as Dimitri sat beside him on the floor of the bone-white helicopter, touching his hand. 

_Syl, sleep. Sleep now._

"Stay here, stay with me..."

Sylvain recoiled from Dimitri. He didn't know why. He was being gentle, being soft. But Sylvain had always been a little scared of him, and right now, in the midst of such pain, he didn't want him any closer. He whimpered, having thought he heard Claude's voice. His eyes rolled, searching for Claude instead.

_Help me._

Dimitri sat back, his little face crumpling with a child's tears, ringing, ringing in Sylvain's ears.

"Hey, hey... I have you, I have you..." He leant over him, taking hold of his hand, one of the only things unbattered. "I have you... Deep breaths. Hey, there you are... Deep breaths."

His fathomless green eyes looked down at him, filled with terror, with compassion.

Sylvain calmed. Green eyes. _Green_ eyes.

His head lolled back onto his shoulder, onto the stretcher. Green eyes, green green eyes. _Eye._ Eyes.

He tried to squeeze the hand that held his, but he was so numb he couldn't manage it.

There was a broken little melody sung over him, near lost in the roar of the helicopter's wings, whirling them away. A song from Claude’s home, the broken ground beneath them.

_Hello, redbird, is it spring?_

Cornelia stared at Claude as she healed. Was he... Singing a lullaby to him? These humans were pathetic. A little pain, nothing more, and they reverted to mere infants. She kept that thought to herself though. This would all be worth it in the end. This was just a less than glamorous stepping stone.

Sylvain was indeed sick again as the healing bathed him in green light. He retched, just barely able to turn his head to the side. Nothing but spit came out, spit and blood.

Claude held a scarf, taken from his brow, to his mouth, wiping the blood and saliva away. "There you go, bring it up. You're okay. You're okay..." It was a mantra, said over his head. "We'll get you home. Where you can freeze your ass off and complain about the weather..."

Sylvain's head jerked away from the scarf in panic, as if it were being used to smother him, but the motion made him dizzy and his head banged down against the metal edge of the stretcher.

"Hold his head in his lap and hold him still," Cornelia snapped. She knew Claude was a king but... This was ridiculous.

Claude shuffled ahead, to brace his head on his lap, hushing him as he held him still, firm. "Be still, be still... Shh, be still."

He couldn't hold his hand, but he used the scarf to strap Sylvain's head still, keep him from turning, and use his other hand to hold onto his arms, crossed on his breast.

The whole time, Dimitri was crying, a child's weeping in his ears.

Sylvain was sure he was dying. He felt the scarf strap him down, he felt the rush of blood in his legs and broke wild. He bucked, suddenly, and the rush of oxygen left his brain. Bloody froth covered his lips and chin as his body contorted.

"Shove something in his mouth!" Cornelia snapped. If Sylvain didn't survive, her master wouldn't be happy.

Claude panicked. He gave him the first thing he could find for him to bite down on and hold his airways open; his own hand. He flinched as Sylvain clamped down on the meat of his thumb, breaking his skin, but held him fast, speaking now in his mother tongue, soothing nonsense over his head, trying to drown out whatever plagued him.

Sylvain rattled and bit. His body was moving like every muscle was a jackhammer, but slowly, slowly, as the taste of Claude's blood came to his senses, he began to steady, began to slow. His hips settled and his eyes glazed, blinking up at him, sluggish and unfocused.

Finally, for a moment, his brain quieted, and he slumped down, unconscious.

Claude thought he was gone. Dying on his lap, in some goddess-forsaken helicopter over the desert. But he couldn't cry. He couldn't. He held his mouth open, sang over his body, unsure if it was a lullaby or a requiem for the lost.

Cornelia worked, wishing she could just... Hit Claude over the head to shut him up. It was a nauseating scene, straight out of Hollywood garbage. But whatever. He'd probably live.

"Let him rest," she shouted over the helicopter blades. "He'll need it."

Finally, he withdrew his bloody hand, his thumb broken from the pressure, but he was in too much shock to mind. Sylvain slept on his lap, strangely peaceful. He prayed to whatever god or goddess would listen to spare him, to let him wake up.

  
  
  


It wasn't until they got him back to the compound that Claude worked from. Sylvain was still broken, but the bone no longer protruded from his body. Normally Claude could get someone else to clean him up, but he wanted to do it himself.

He was careful, gently cutting away the rest of his clothing, easing him into the hot water. Normally the shock would wake someone. But no. Still breathing in a sort of macabre rhythm, ragged and grim, Sylvain slept on, even in the tub.

It was horrifying. His legs didn't lay right, swaying a way in the water that made Claude gag. At this point, at least no flesh was torn, and the shattered bones had been mended enough to be simpler breaks needing splinting. 

Claude washed his hair, rinsing him, over and over again, as if he couldn't get him clean. He sat beside the tub on a raised stool, letting Sylvain's head rest on his lap while he scrubbed him.

"There you go, Casanova... look, there's a pretty face under that muck. Just rest, we'll get you all patched up, home to Faerghus. Get you safe and sound and you can watch garbage television with pretty girls."

Sylvain didn't answer, and that was the worst part. Sylvain was always pissing everyone around him off with his terrible jokes, was always quick to grin and flirt, beg for five more minutes on the earpiece so he could have the attention of pretty girls and boys for five more minutes, five more minutes...

_Just live for five more minutes._

He did. And then the next five. And the next. Every breath could be his last, Cornelia warned. They had done serious damage--the kind that wouldn't kill outright, but would force his brain to make the decision if it was worth it to live or die.

Once he was clean, he was laid out, tubes slipped across his nose, into his throat. Anything to keep him breathing, to give his body a break from doing the tedious, painful work on its own. Everything was white, too clean, Sylvain's hair smelled like bleach, and not his sweet shampoo, the heady body wash he usually used.

Claude allowed his hand to be bandaged only long enough for him to take Sylvain's hand in his, stroke his hair back.

They couldn't move him yet. He was too fragile; his body couldn't take the shock of being flown home, could barely take lying in bed, being safe. It was an animal instinct, one Claude knew of, was warned of early on. Animals limp home to die in their warm dens, safe and sound. This was Sylvain's den. He had to keep watch over him, so that he wouldn't slip away into the moon-soaked night sand.

He did send out a critical message to Dedue, to pass on.

  
  


**CLAUDE**

He's here. We have him home. Mission failure, still have asset. Will stay with him as long as it takes to get him home.

  
  


Dedue sent it only to the Blue Lions, the close knit group of elite guardians that protected Dimitri. He didn't send it to Felix, though. He would tell him in person.

  
  


**DEDUE**

What is his status?

  
  


Claude took a single photo. It would speak more than words.

Ingrid dropped her phone. Ashe ran to the closest place he could to get sick. Not their Sylvain, not like this.

Dimitri also had not heard the news, trying to have an awkward breakfast together. "Dedue?" he said, looking up. "What's happened?"

Felix looked up sharply. He recognized the look Dedue was giving him. He stood up so abruptly he almost knocked over the chair.

"Sylvain has been recovered," Dedue said. He didn't say _safe,_ he couldn't possibly lie about that.

Felix seized Dedue's shirt viciously. "Is he alive!?"

Dedue wasn't fazed. "He is. But he's wounded."

"I want a full report," Dimitri snapped. "Where is he? What is his condition?!" Dimitri grasped his other side, shaking him--Dedue was near pressed against the wall.

Dedue wished he could take this moment to appreciate that Dimitri and Felix were working together on something, even if it was to shove him against a wall. Still, he was strong enough to hold firm.

"His condition appears to be critical," he confessed calmly. "It appears that he may not make it." Dedue was never one to sugarcoat things.

Dimitri had sent Sylvain, his Sylvain, to his death, over a scheme. He would wring Claude's neck when he found him. "How... How was he recovered?" Was it Hubert's work?

"Is he... comfortable?" Ashe asked, looking very green indeed, his lips colorless, eyes shadowed.

"He's unconscious," Dedue answered, "So... there isn't any pain right now."

"Was it worth it?" Ingrid snapped, "Lord Blaiddyd, was it worth it?"

Dedue spoke, but was interrupted halfway. "It does appear that Count Vestra's agent was responsible--"

Felix tackled Dimitri. He was his Shield, his childhood friend, and right now, the cause of Sylvain's possible death. He was maddened by grief. While Ingrid might only snap at their King, Felix struck him in the jaw on his blind side and shoved him over, on top of him in moments.

They tangled like wild animals. Ashe leapt in to pull them apart, but Ingrid, Ingrid lifted Ashe under his arms, and just let it be. Felix deserved this rage.

Annette cried out desperately. "Stop! _Stop!_ This won't help him!"

 _"You bloodthirsty boar!"_ Felix roared, his fists flying, the scarf ripped from his black neck. "Was it worth it to avenge the _dead?!_ To appease _your_ ghosts!? _Was Sylvain worth it!?”_

Dedue ripped Felix off of Dimitri, but even with his strength, it was not easy. They were both bloodied but both unbowed.

"Do you think I wanted this? I sent Count Vestra's men to retrieve him! It is because of them he still breathes!" Dimitri shouted.

Felix was gnashing his teeth, sobbing with rage. He finally went limp in Dedue's arms and then shoved the man off. He was done. Done. He actually shoved Mercedes out of the way to get to the door.

"What is that?" Dimti hissed, crossing the penthouse too quickly with his long legs, "What is _that?!"_

He seized the collar of Felix’s shirt and ripped him back inside, pulling it open like a beast tearing apart prey.

Felix was quick to wrest away and then, for the first time in his life, he drew the blade on him.

"Stay away from me, you rabid dog."

The long blade, which had once been Glenn's, had never been turned on Dimitri, never against one of House Blaiddyd. It was always supposed to be turned the other way.

It was then Dimitri saw it, saw the marks of fingers on his throat, the bandages on his wobbling sword-arm.

"...Who did this to you?" he hissed, stepping back. Was there someone in his House hurting his men?

Dedue shook his head. "Master Blaiddyd..." Surely Felix wouldn't, after hiding it for five years...

Felix laughed and that's why his voice had sounded so hoarse and labored. _"You_ did, boar. Not surprised you don't remember, all the pills you pop."

Ingrid hissed his name, but he didn't hear her. All that existed was himself and the beast, everything else was noise.

Dimitri stepped back, letting Felix slip from his fingers. "Is it true," he said, voice soft, to Dedue, his eye pleading. "Is it true?"

Dedue wished this was one of the few times he could lie but he could not. "You're not well, Master Blaiddyd. It isn't your fault." He knew it wouldn't help.

Everyone looked at him with fear in their eyes. How had he not seen it before? Ashe, Ingrid, Annette-- even Mercedes-- flinched from him. Was it any wonder, seeing what he had done to his own Shield?

"How long?"

Felix didn't want to see the consequences of his actions. He bolted, just like he had back then.

Dedue didn't answer. Was there really a need to?

Dimitri sank back into himself, his eye becoming dead, his tone soft. "Make sure Sylvain gets home safely, regardless of his state. He deserves to rest in Faerghus."

"Lord Blaiddyd," Ashe tried, reaching out, only to flinch away at the mere turn of his head. He sat quietly, meek almost, at the table.

"Get out," he ordered.

They scurried like terrified rats from a dog. All except Dedue, loyal, faithful Dedue. He would take over for Felix that night. He would, for once, bear the brunt of the burden Felix never shared. Took all upon himself.

"Master," he tried, softly.

Dimitri ground the words out. "Leave. Me."

His thumbs fumbled a little with his phone as he messaged his Almyran counterpart.

  
  


**DIMITRI**

Show me Sylvain.

  
  


Dedue refused to leave. He moved behind him, ready to receive a blow as he reached for the phone. He knew Claude wouldn't show him anything anyway.

And a blow Dimitri gave him. He swung with all of his might, catching Dedue's shoulder. "Do you want to _die!?"_ He snarled. **_"LEAVE ME."_ **

Dedue was strong and heavy, hard to move. But Dimitri unleashed his unnatural strength on him and Dedue fell backwards, the mountain toppled, only managing to catch himself on the back of the sofa.

He looked up at all the hatred in the remaining blue eye, and he remembered that his purpose was to serve him, to obey him. Not to coddle him.

"...very well," he said calmly, though the pain in his shoulder was immense. He stood and, because he would always remain loyal, bowed to him before he left, closing the door and leaving Dimitri entirely, entirely alone.

He hadn't been alone since he was born.

  
  


Dimitri sank into the chair at the head of the table, and let his ghosts join him.


	5. Morphine and Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain gets some 'healing' from Claude. Ferdinand tries to get back into the Tailtean Arms. Dimitri becomes both unhinged and then gets a moment of clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: hurt/comfort smut, some violence, death (unnamed npcs)

Normally planes don't accept limp passengers who were unwilling to board. But no one was going to question a Blue Lion. Like a Faerghus urban legend, only very real. People knew the symbol, they recognized who they were. And the attendants were paid, of course, as well as the pilots.

So Ferdinand was strapped in and the plane took off. Even though he regained the use of his limbs early on in the flight, there was no way he could just... Turn around. He was on a plane. A nice one, too. Cushy. First class. Dimitri didn't want to piss Edelgard off by mishandling her assets.

So, instead, Ferdinand fumed. He sat there and tapped out a furious text to send to Edelgard as soon as he could move his thumbs, practically snarling in his seat. At least in first class he didn't have any neighbors to make nervous.

  
  


**FERDINAND VON AEGIR**

Lady Edelgard, I am not sure what has occurred here or what agreement you have come to with Hubert and the Blaiddyds, but I must protest! I have been humiliated, placed on a plane utterly boneless, and shipped back like a package!

**FERDINAND VON AEGIR**

I know you are doing crucial things to the east, but we simply must involve you at this stage! I fear Hubert has gotten in over his head, and you know he won't listen to me.

**FERDINAND VON AEGIR**

For the good of our people and for your future, we simply must

  
  


A steward, relieved to see him awake, offered a cup of hot tea, to which he brightened. True, it was from a bag and not loose leaves, even in first class, but while he was this stressed, he would accept tea in almost any form, even if for the aroma alone. "Yes, thank you!" Then he continued his tirade.

  
  


**FERDINAND VON AEGIR**

We simply must work together, which means we mustn't keep secrets.

  
  


It was almost an hour before he got a response, and it wasn't really satisfying.

  
  


**EDELGARD VON HRESVELG**

Ferdinand, please understand the pressures of my position.

Hubert himself secured your release, I had no hand in it.

I have no jurisdiction in Faerghus, you know this.

  
  


It wasn't until he landed that he got his response.

  
  


**FERDINAND VON AEGIR**

My lady, I do understand. But what about him? He is

He is

He is

  
  


What was Hubert? He took a deep breath and continued.

  
  


**FERDINAND VON AEGIR**

A valuable asset to you and to the Empire, my lady. Will he be safe?

  
  


**EDELGARD VON HRESVELG**

Ferdinand, I am in the middle of a desert.

Hubert can certainly take care of himself. Have some faith in him.

Now stop messaging me unless it is critical.

  
  


"This  _ is _ critical," he groaned to himself, smearing his hand across his face. Damn it. How was he supposed to navigate Enbarr alone? This was awful. He collected his meager carry-on, and wobbled his way down the tarmac.

  
  
  


Hubert was hard at work. He couldn't afford to prove himself useless to Lord Blaiddyd, or he might just be disposed of. He heard a distant thud upstairs, but he ignored it, instead cursing quietly at Cornelia's report.

If Sylvain died, Hubert would look bad. And Sylvain was certainly an ugly thing right now. Two broken legs, a broken arm, multitudes of broken ribs, and that didn't even touch on his internal bleeding. From the photos Cornelia had sent, he looked like a corpse indeed. But ever at his side was Claude, seen holding his head, his hand, leant over him, fussing, bleeding.

He couldn't deploy any more competent healers. He didn't have any. Healing was not his modus operandi. He would just have to hope Sylvain lived, he supposed.

Ferdinand had left behind most of his toiletries in the hurry, leaving Hubert with a bottle of his cologne, and his expensive hair care products. It made the place smell like him. He quickly dumped the sweet-smelling soaps in the garbage. He couldn't afford to be sentimental or distracted by them. But he kept the tea. He'd become so weak, he thought for the hundredth time that day. But he'd not get rid of it.

The smell of tea was strong that afternoon.

Well, he thought, grimacing as he sipped the tea (his least favorite kind as it was quite sweet), if Sylvain died, perhaps he could manipulate Lord Blaiddyd with Claude. It was obvious he was important to him. And Claude was no match for Cornelia. He could have her turn on a dime.

He dumped out the rest of the tea. Disgusting. He missed Ferdinand already.

  
  
  
  


Sylvain's eyes opened, but he couldn't see right. He frowned, and even that hurt his muscle more than anything useful coming about from it. Every movement was just trembling and he tried so hard to slip back into unconsciousness. He didn't want to be awake. There was so much on his face--in his mouth, wedged in his teeth. Claude noticed the change in his breathing immediately and snapped his chin up from the piles of reports and scrawled ledgers stacked half on his lap, and half on Sylvain's bed.

"Hey! Hey, hey... You shouldn't be up yet..." Claude said, swearing softly as he hustled to remove the papers around him. Always hard at work, always scheming.

Sylvain made a whimpering noise, but it was so broken and quiet that it was almost like a whistle through the gauze of his teeth. His one unbroken hand lifted weakly, searching, trying to figure out where he was or who he was with.

"Hey, I'm here, I'm here... just be still..." Claude reached across him carefully, unsure of the places that wouldn't make him hurt, and took his hand, bringing it to his heart.

"It's Khalid. I'm here."

Sylvain tried to smile, tried to speak, because he recognized that name and he recognized that there was no way Dimitri knew it. He repeated the name muffled through bloody fabric. He touched Claude's chest, only capable of it because Claude was holding his hand up for him.

"Shh, shh," Claude whispered, sitting beside him on the bed. "You're on some machines to help you breathe. You need to rest. Don't try to smile for me." His fingers curled around Sylvain's, kissing his fingers. "Why didn't you give it up? Why? You could've given it to them."

Sylvain looked up at him with those dead brown eyes and croaked as best he could. "Gotta make them work for it."

"You fucking dumbass," Claude muttered, pushing the oxygen mask on him further. "Do you need morphine? Anything?"

"I'll tell you what I don't need," Sylvain muttered, closing his eyes. "A hard dick up my ass for a while." Yeah, he would probably live. "Morphine would be great though."

"Obviously. Let me get you something to take the edge off. Glad to see your eyes, dumbass. Shut ‘em for a while." He bent down, unable to resist placing a lingering kiss on his brow. 

They were far from the desert now in one of Claude's many safe houses. It carried the same scent his clothing did, and he was in what appeared to be a bedroom, despite the medical equipment. How Claude acquired such things was anyone's guess, but then again… he  _ was  _ King. Though he left Sylvain alone for a moment, Claude returned with an old Almyran woman who tisked and tutted at him. She fussed over Sylvain like a grandmother with a little boy who had scraped his knee, then administered a shot of a blessing into his IV line.

"There you go," Claude told him, perching at his side. "Promise I won't record what you say and hold it against you later."

"Aw," Sylvain whined, his voice like two rocks grinding together. "But I like when you hold things against me." Even his dumb jokes weren't making any sense, but as the morphine took hold, he grinned, lopsided. "Where's Mitya?"

Thousands of miles away, for a start. Alaba, the old Almyran woman, bustled about, shushing him. She rolled her eyes when Sylvain tried to wink at her. Claude slipped off his shoes and laid beside Sylvain, draping one arm over his chest, light, careful not to push down.

"Stuffy and cranky somewhere in Fhirdiad, I imagine, with legs for days."

He could've wept from relief to see Sylvain acting as he usually did, but worry gnawed at him. When they found him, he was sure he was dead, that that bright red candle had been snuffed out from his miscalculations. He burrowed just a little into his shoulder, giving a shaky sigh. "Come on, Little Red. Get some sleep."

Sylvain didn't need to be told twice. He really couldn't even keep his eyes open anymore.

He would live.

  
  
  
  


Pale even in the daytime, the ghosts swallowed Dimitri whole. They moved around him, flitted about like nervous moonshadows, touching him, pulling away sharply, frantic, frenetic movement like an anxious dance.

_ Come here _

_ Hurry _

_ Nice shot _

_ Felix _

_ How long _

_ Kill them all _

They chanted and bled together, not just in voice but in form, a ghost with Glenn's comforting arms and Patricia's gentle smile. Dimitri was starved for their affection, for their comfort, but it was like trying to embrace fog, slipping away between his fingers, chilling him to the bone. Dimitri paced the penthouse’s fine floors, trying to warm himself, to breathe heat into his shattered heart. It was all the old things people with degrees had told him.  _ Center yourself. Focus on your breathing. _

It worked surprisingly well, until a report came through on his phone. Someone needed his help.

It was time for the hunt.

When Dimitri slammed open the penthouse door, Dedue jerked his head upright. Dimitri had told him to leave, but he just couldn't bring himself to do so. Not fully. "Master Blaiddyd?" he asked carefully, getting to his feet. He'd been sleeping against the wall.

Dimitri looked and strained, but at the promise of blood in the air, he didn't recognize Dedue at all. The ghosts surrounded him, laughing, moaning, whimpering, and Dedue was just another one of them, saying something that blended in with the rest. He wasn't _ distinct.  _ He was real, but Dimitri couldn’t tell his face or his voice apart from the rest of the crowd that surrounded him.

He said nothing, bulling ahead down the steps, winding down the stairwell without looking back. As he stalked, he pulled on his leather gloves one at a time with a snap.

_ Kill them, kill them, kill them... _

His fine polished black shoes echoed as he disappeared out into the Fhirdiad flurries, his long legs striking out like weapons down the snow-covered sidewalks. Dedue scrambled to follow, his own scarf (a relic of Duscur) wrapped tightly around his neck. There would be blood on the snow tonight, but he didn’t know whose. Dedue didn't receive the private reports. Reports of a.... street nature.

Dimitri was King of Faerghus at night. Yes, the time for official titles of royalty had passed, but no man nor woman would stand in his way. And yes, he had secretaries and guardians and weapons and money, and yes he had people to carry out his dirty work for him, but there was another practice he'd picked up that his father had never stooped to involve himself in.

Gang violence.

It was the work of the Blue Lions to keep their King from having to dirty his hands in such a way, to keep him clean. However, where his father was content to let others do it, Dimitri took pleasure in the action. So now the lion prowled at night, his singular eye flashing as he sought out his prey, those he passed just skeletons on the road to his destruction.

Dedue followed. He had called for the car on his way down the stairs but Dimitri had walked right past it. Where was he going in the midst of a snowstorm? He called out to him several times, but Dimitri either ignored him or, far more likely, couldn't hear. The only thing he could do was follow and keep the King safe.

Katya was a woman of noble beginnings, who left that life rather quickly to find her own path. As some young nobles did, she threw away everything she had just to prove she could claw out a living of her own. She might have served as one of the Blue Lions at one point, had she not run away from home before King Lambert's untimely demise, but even so, she still showed loyalty to Dimitri.

She stood, all jeans and leather in the cold, waiting for him.

"Your Majesty," she mumbled, nodding instead of the bowing and scraping he was so used to. "Thank you for coming."

Dimitri gave a curt nod, barely acknowledging her. "Where are they?" he growled out, hearing the soft sound of Glenn in the shell of his ear.  _ It's too cold for you out here, you'll catch your death. You need a scarf. _

Only to be cut off by the sound of his father.  _ Kill them all. _

Katya could see this was one of Dimitri's more dangerous moods. She didn't back down, but she was on her guard. "About three streets over, in the circle of Tailtean. I called you because it was so close. And I'm short handed," she said, a bit pained. "They have my girls."

"...Girls," Dimitri said, low, turning his head too slowly, like a beast stirred from slumber. "What do you mean." His voice had become a flat growling, no longer showing the inflection of a question or a statement.

Katya took a hesitant step back. "They have Hilda, Marianne, and Lysithea captive," she explained, careful not to rouse his anger against herself. "They're not a gang I know or expected--foreign, so I didn't factor in their movements." She didn't even know if her girls were alive.

He was familiar with Katya's little brood. Her Fawns, as she called them from time to time. Marianne was so gentle and tender, it was easy to see how she had been chosen as a front, while Hilda, tough and brave despite her work ethic, had been set as her guardian. Sweet, tiny Lysithea, of course, made for a perfect assassin.

"Someone who has it out with the former Alliance," he mused, mostly to himself. After all, all the girls hailed from that disbanded group.

Katya nodded. "That's my guess, although they don't seem to be from Leceister or Almyra." She kicked idly at the snow, frustrated by her incompetence, her blindness. "Claude wouldn't have sent anyone after them, he likes them." She knew the King of Almyra too. Had received warnings from him that she had better not mistreat his Fawns.

Dimitri nodded solemnly. He knew that Claude adored them, and would never have wanted them harmed. Especially Hilda. Sylvain told him they had history somehow, which he didn't care to look into.

"Fine. Point me in the direction of those responsible."

Dedue was amazed that Katya could speak to Dimitri through his ghosts. Perhaps it was only because of the promise of violence. At least he was at His Majesty's side.

Katya motioned for silence and shifted through the snow.

Dimitri'd had the good sense not to put his armor on when he went out. It was a relic of a bygone era and though it could stop a bullet, it wasn't exactly a  _ nimble _ piece of equipment. Dimitri wore more modern armor, though it was only a kevlar vest. Anything else dragged him down. He crept closer, and a weapon slid out from his sleeve, snapping open into a full-size staff made from carbon fiber; a Blaiddyd innovation, of course. The snap of the bowstaff coming loose was almost entirely silent, and went unnoticed. Katya wasn't worried that he didn't pick a gun. He didn't need one. He was strong and he was fast. Even at close ranges, she'd never once seen Dimitri get shot that wasn't just a graze.

Dimitri and Katya were silent as shadows as they stole through the Fhirdiad streets, Dimitri only a pace behind her. Dedue did his best not to let his footfalls crunch in the snow.

They could hear the low whispers around the corner. Either they hadn't noticed their approach or they were pretending not to notice.

Dimitri listened carefully to the patterns of speech. He hadn't gone to private school for nothing.  _ Dagdan. _ He could only catch a word every now and then (it wasn't a language he was too diligent in) but they sounded worried. Agitated.

Katya held up her hand and motioned upwards. More on the roof, also Dagda natives. Snipers and guards. This would be tricky. They'd have to take them out first, and quietly, or the ones with boots on the ground would bolt. Dimitri gave a sharp nod, and slipped around the edge of the building onto the fire escape, steps muffled by the snow. When killing was his motivation, he could be quiet as anything.

Predictably, the fire escape was slippery, but he could take his time. He was out of sight. They should have posted a guard or something here, but apparently, they were new to the territory and hadn't scoped it out yet. From Katya's description, they had swept in out of nowhere into her territory (and technically, Dimitri's since all of Faerghus was his territory), grabbed her girls, and made this little warehouse their makeshift base.

And there was no way a new gang could just waltz in and expect to survive in Faerghus. With the Blaiddyd stranglehold on most comings and goings of things of this nature, they'd be picked clean before long.

But Dimitri wasn't mobilizing his units. No, he was going with Katya, Dedue, and that was it. The Blue Lions would be furious if they knew. Felix would be furious if he knew.

But Felix was furious anyway.

Dimitri wasn't really thinking of Felix right now--not  _ alone  _ actually. He was thinking of a blur of faces of everyone he had hurt, everyone who had hurt others.

For someone as large as he was, he was deceptively quick, mostly because he took to the steps using his hands for speed and stability. When Dimitri descended upon them, the violence was swift, efficient, and quiet. He knew the soft places to strike with his staff, to silence them without causing too much of a stir. It was a terrifying, elegant thing, to watch him work. Yes, guns were faster. But they were not nearly as savagely graceful as Dimitri's staff, snapping bones on impact and skewering.

He called it his Lance, and it was a fitting description. In the Blaiddyd castle, there was the Relic of his family hanging above the ancient throne; Areadbhar, the Blaiddyd namesake of old. And he  _ knew _ how to use it too. It was a tradition to teach young heirs the old weapons of their people, even if guns had far outstripped the need for swords and lances (thereby making Felix an exception to those who actually used them).

The Lance that was in his hand now bore no blade, but it didn't need one. The two Dagdans who were stationed on the roof went down, both under Dimitri's blunt weapon before Katya could even scale the fire escape. She looked down at them, now not people but corpses. She had hoped to question them, but that was the tradeoff for using Dimitri as muscle.

There was no mercy in him.

Dimitri did not pause for them, creeping to the edge of the roof like a prowling lion, shoulders hunched as he stalked his prey below. He craned his neck forward, listening, smelling them. His breath clouded around his face, sinking his gloved hands into the snow at the edge of the roof, so close to just teetering off, but too focused. Where were they? Where were they keeping the Fawns?

Dedue was still on the ground, where he was ordered to be. His heart skipped around a lot, trying to find a place to settle, watching his King lean over the roof like that. It was a true miracle that none of the Dagdans saw him. He just waited, obedient, for his signal.

If Felix was his Shield, Dedue was his Sword. 

Katya picked up one of the rifles the Dagdans still clutched in half-frozen hands. They were of Faerghus make, which was not unusual. But what  _ was _ unusual was they didn't seem to come prepared for the Fhirdiad cold. It was as if they had come in here in haste. But why? Why were they running? What were they running towards? Or from?

"Your Majesty," she said carefully. "Something isn't right here."

Dimitri shot her a look, and hunkered down with a growl. "What business would a Dagdan have here? With former Alliance members, with Faerghus?" he whispered, half to himself. It was obvious Dimitri took little care of his life as he craned over the edge of the building, peering down below.

Katya considered--just once--grabbing the back of his cape to keep him from falling. But she didn't really want to be the victim of a fall if he should mistake her for an enemy. Or be at the opposing end of his Lance. She just had to trust that he wouldn't fall. Or that, somehow, he'd survive if he did.

She just sort of shrugged in reply. "The only business I know of Dagda was ten years ago," she mused. "When they allied with Brigid to attack Enbarr." And lost so, so tragically.

Dimitri curled his lips like a beast, snapped his jaws. "A slaughter," he said simply. Katya had to agree with him. After all, Brigid only enlisted Dagda's help to free themselves from the tyranny of the Empire. So their failed attempt at a coup was something to mourn. "How many more are there?" He knew Dedue could handle himself against many men, but he was not going to send him into a bloodbath. No, that was for him to do. Dimitri craved it,  _ hungered _ for it.

"At least twenty on the ground, Your Majesty." She paused. "I know you could take them all on your own, but please... Consider that they have hostages," she said softly. She knew better than to beg when Dimitri was in this mood. And stranger still, he hadn't brought his Shield with him. She wondered why. Other than Dedue, Dimitri never had anyone else forever by his side more than Felix. They were at a severe disadvantage. "I don't know where they're being kept. They may have been moved."

"Would they put such vulnerable hostages at such a prominent place?" Dimitri asked. If the Fawns were here, it was likely that they would be in the first line of fire. He shook his head. Protection was not his priority. Only revenge. "Cross to the other side. We'll come from three sides." No cover for any of them, especially not Dimitri. It was fast, effective. But undoubtedly risky. 

Katya wasn't given much time to argue. Dimitri had already coiled his body, ready to throw himself down the fire escape and charge. She was beginning to regret this, just a little. But her concern for her girls overcame her fear of Dimitri and she reached up, taking his shoulder.

"Please... What are you planning?" she asked quietly. She'd hoped Felix would be here to temper him. "Where is your Shield?" He was never this reckless without Felix there to watch his back.

Dimitri fell back to his heels, wrenching out of her hands. "He is no longer chained to service with me," he said, strangely airy for how vicious he looked. "He is free now." 

Katya couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that the Shield of Faerghus would ever leave the service of his King of Night. Even Felix, even rude, sarcastic, and reticent Felix wouldn't dare...

But she couldn't think about that right now.

Like the snow that fell around them, Dimitri quieted, still. "If we take the three corners, Dedue in the rear where they likely have the hostage, he'll be able to protect them.

Katya just nodded.

Dedue had a good opportunity when Dimitri roared from the top of the building. All the Dagdans started, staring up, and he attacked them then, while they weren't looking. Like Dimitri, like Felix, he preferred to use his own talents, but he had guns just in case. The steel bands jutting from between his knuckles tore into flesh and destroyed all muscle and sinew in his way.

Dimitri moved like an animal, taking to his hands and feet when walking erect was inefficient. He might as well have jumped from the roof for how quickly he arrived on the ground. 

With a swing of his Lance he caved a man's skull in, leaving him in a pile of meat and flesh at his feet, blood steaming into the winter. Idly, he was aware of the blood painting him, warmth that quickly vanished, that soaked into fine clothing, ruining the fibers of the fabric, staining his soul. When he bore his teeth, they stuck out like bone against the gore.

The Dagdans were already shocked by the appearance of Dedue and, in moving to respond quickly, had their trembling fingers on their triggers towards them. So far, not a shot had taken him down, and when they saw Dimitri, leering at them through the paint of blood and the drip of viscera steaming the snow at his feet, they utterly broke. They were undisciplined, they were terrified. They ran, they shot behind them, glancing off the Kevlar uselessly.

Dimitri rushed to give chase, ready to pursue them to the end of the earth, ready, ready, wanting. He ripped through the snow, bellowing in a terrifying timbre,  **_"COME AND DIE LIKE THE RATS YOU ARE!"_ **

A young man tripped, slipping in the snow in his haste to get away. And when he turned onto his back, he raised the barrel of the pistol, screaming at Dimitri. Crying. Shaking and sobbing. It was Dagdan, but it was a simple enough phrase. Dimitri could pick it out.

_ I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die! _

Dimitri was unmoved. He brought up the Lance, ready to beat the boy into his final oblivion. He didn't even see anymore--just smears of red, bodies waiting to be broken. Words of any language smeared together, melted, fused, burned. He gave a hideous smile, lopsided and more like the grimace of an animal. His prey didn't deserve any words.

Cold steel touched Dimitri's neck.

"Drop it, boar."

Felix stood behind him, his suit loosened by the blizzard winds, his skin red and his eyes warm with the blood that surrounded them.

Dimitri slowly, almost lazily turned his head as he made his mouth work, struggled to find words, like finding dirt beneath his feet in a sea of ice.

_ "Please," _ he begged him, and he knew Felix would know what he asked for.

Felix wasn't going to give him the death he so desperately craved. Angry or not, hateful or not, he was still the Shield of Faerghus. And even in such a shadowy business, there was an honor in that which Felix served for his own personal reasons, not because tradition dictated it.

Instead he shoved to the right, and the beast was knocked enough off balance that the young man--perhaps not even old enough to drink--could scramble upright, sliding on the ice, and run after the survivors.

"You are  _ worse  _ than a wild boar," Felix snapped, looking around him. In the snow that continued to pile, the bodies of seven Dagdans were being given a sort of frozen burial. Not quite quickly enough to hide the shape of their entrails though. Even Felix flinched at the gore.

Dimitri dropped the Lance with a clang, and then shoved both of Felix's shoulders with his hands. "So you tell me!" he sneered. "So I know! So I  _ am!" _ Felix wouldn't have been able to withstand a shove from Dimitri in the best of circumstances. And with blood and ice beneath his feet (an alcohol burning through his guts) there was no way he wasn't flat on his back, sword dropped, less than six inches away from the closest corpse, a woman whose eyes were bulging with the blood pooled on her head.

Dimitri advanced on him, teeth shining, "You tell me and yet you  _ haunt  _ me, yet you won't  _ leave  _ me, you won't let me die, you won't let me--" His eye was wild. "You won't let me  _ join  _ you."

With Felix like this, laid low and stretched in the snow of the Fhirdiad back alley, Dimitri could see the thick bruises of his own hands that still covered his throat. The ones he had been so concerned about hours ago.

Felix made no move to stand. Didn't flinch. Just lay there and let Dimitri abuse him, like he always did. He just turned his face to the side, looking anywhere but at Dimitri. Like he had for so many years.

Like he had since soccer practice.

On any other night, Dimitri would have destroyed him, left him broken at best, and at worst, unable to be buried, in too many parts. Yet as Dimitri shambled forward, tiny hands caught his arm.

"Come away," said a Fawn, fearless though she was covered in blood, her skirts hemmed with evidence of his violence. "Be still."

Though Hilda held her weapon--an iron pipe--and hissed at her to return, Lysithea sheltered behind her, Marianne, delicate and determined, wrapped her hands around Dimitri’s arm.

"Be still, now," she told him. Her voice led him back, back from the grassy summer field where Glenn's body lay, his breast filled with holes.

Felix didn't get up. He didn't want to. A part of him wanted what Dimitri wanted. To be destroyed and laid to rest there, among the corpses of the foreigners to Faerghus.

Marianne spoke as though Dimitri was a stallion, wild and untamed, but not wrong, not crazed. And while Hilda and Lysithea remained unconvinced and refused to approach, Marianne showed no fear.

Finally, Dedue came to help Felix up. Normally, Felix would brush him off, but this time, this time he just stood and let that be enough.

"They weren't your enemy," Felix finally said, flat and quiet. "They made a mistake."

Lysithea, who liked to be right and informative even more than she feared Dimitri's wrath, nodded. "It's true. They received some false information and were convinced I was Edelgard.” She gestured at her white hair. “They hoped to give me to you as a peace offering for shelter through your territory."

"The boar kills piglets, what a surprise," Felix grumbled, shifting some snow over the face of the young woman with bulging eyes.

Dimitri stared at his work, at the slaughtered people. People who had sought refuge and safety in his country, who had sought a new life, who were now corpses at his feet, from a mistake, from his hastiness.

Marianne, closest to him, saw the flicker of lucidity and utter horror reach his features as he seemed to come to his senses, as much as he ever had any. He shook, swaying in place, tried to step away, out of his own skin, away from what he had done, his breath quickening, too sharp, cutting into his lungs.

"Be still. How could you have known?" Marianne tried, reaching for him even as he retreated against the alley walls.

Dimitri's gaze locked on the bruises circling Felix's throat like a beautiful onyx necklace. His body heaved uselessly, and he twisted, like a cat cornered, and bolted.

Away. He had to get away from them. Away from his sins. Away. He had nowhere to direct his fury, no one to pursue, no prey, nothing but his own sin, tangling him in thorns and Marianne's tender voice like an order.

_ Be still. _

He could not.

Only Dedue followed, and Dedue was not fast enough to keep up.

  
  


Morning light found Dimitri on the east side of Fhirdiad, not far from the hills and the edge of his territory.

Not far from his school. Not far from where Glenn ran beside him on the field and shouted encouragement, even over encouraging his own brother.

It was empty now, in the midst of winter break. Dimitri could hear Dedue finally catching up to him, but not getting so close as to disturb his reverie.

The blizzard went on. Painting the world white. Bleaching away the stain. He could still hear Dedue, but he couldn't stop. Not now.

There was a chapel, as many private schools in Faerghus had, a great white thing, with sculptures of Seiros, crowned in folded wings and lilies, bowing her head in pity. If the door was locked, it didn't matter with Dimitri's strength as he just pulled the door open, disappearing into the dark church.

It was mostly white pews, stained glass, hushed from the snow outside. Dimitri tracked the snow in as he approached the altar of the Goddess, the old sculpture festooned with lilies, signs of rebirth and renewal.

Dimitri sank into the front row, staring into his distant thoughts. This was where sinners came, was it not?

Dedue stood by the door, didn't follow him in.

Here, the ever present Goddess looked down on him with pity. She might have extended a hand to him, she might have comforted if she were real. But she was only a statue. The true spirits were already with him, as they always were.

Glenn's hand was heavy as it squeezed his shoulder. Heavy with life again, with blood.

_ Hey. _ His voice was so sad, so sincere, so serious.  _ It's okay, Mitya. You can cry. It's not a sign of weakness. _

He needed it.

Dimitri burst. He shattered, as if he had been glued together with sugar paper. He tore his hands into his hair and folded into himself as he wept, screamed, as if making noise in the empty church would silence the voices that drowned out his mind, drowned out the boy who held open doors, who never lied, who wanted to grow up to be a veterinarian, to adopt houses full of dogs and children.

As if he could still be the person Glenn loved, to be the person anyone loved.

The church was filled now, with every single soul he had cut down, every single person who had died from his hands or for his life.

Glenn did not judge him. Glenn let him do this, and all the while, he followed Dimitri down to the ground, both of them on their knees, gripping his shoulders.

_ Cry, scream... But don't give in, _ Glenn begged him, his eyes so golden and so grim.  _ They love you, Mitya. And you are worthy of it. _

He dried Dimitri's tears with that same little handkerchief he'd always had, using it to help blow his little nose or stem a scrape from falling off his bike. Glenn, Glenn had always been beside him. Always.  _ Always. _

Dimitri rocked himself on the floor, his arms tightly around his ribs. "Glenn, I already  _ have _ given in," he told him, "I am a monster. I killed them, I killed them all, I killed  _ you." _

Some part of him knew Glenn wasn't even here. He collapsed, face against the marble in front of the Goddess, and prayed she strike him down. She did not. Would not. Refused him.

_ Please... Mitya, Mitya... If you must place blame, let it be on me. _ Glenn lifted his chin and kissed the eyepatch he bore.  _ I wasn't able to protect you fully. And I'm not there to protect you now. _

**_"Stop protecting me!"_ ** Dimitri shouted, throwing something--a hymnal, he supposed--at the shadow. "Protecting me did this! Protecting me is the problem! I am not to be protected! I am not  _ worth  _ protecting, it is wasted effort!" he foamed and spat, clawing at the carpet. "I don't--need  _ anyone's _ protection! They need to be--the world needs to be protected from  _ me, _ doesn't anyone fucking  **_understand?!"_ **

Felix did. Felix knew.

Glenn stood up, stepped back, looked hurt. But he did not leave him.

_ Dimitri... There is no one more important to me than you. _

A lie. A filthy, disgusting, repulsive lie. At least, Dimitri had to hope so. Had to hope Glenn loved Felix more than he had loved him.

"And what about your brother?" he hissed, "I nearly  _ killed  _ him, Glenn. How many times? How many times have I nearly killed your brother!?" He shook with fury. "How can I deserve anyone's care and no one cares for  _ him?" _

_ It's fine, _ Glenn told him.  _ He would be happy to die for you. I was happy to die for you. _

**_"DID YOU ASK HIM?"_ ** He was on his feet, too quickly.  **_"NO ONE EVER ASKED HIM!"_ ** Standing so fast had made him lightheaded, wobbling on his feet.

Glenn reached out, caught his arm. It was real, so _ real,  _ how could it not be? Dimitri certainly wasn't holding himself up.  _ You're not well, _ Glenn said sternly.  _ Let's go back. _

Dimitri came apart again. "I'm not well," he said. "Wellness is something that involves a cure."

But finally, he caved, resting his face against Glenn's shoulder, trying to breathe in the scent he remembered, trying to be small again, to be new.

He started upright, lurching for a moment and grasping at the air for Glenn, but there was nothing there, only the sweet, aromatic smell of his humidifier, only the fresh cotton of his sheets. He was in bed, and outside, the blizzard raged.

How... How had he returned? Had Glenn carried him?

He could smell more than the humidifier. Something was being cooked, stirred, the sound of a wooden spoon against the metal of a pot could be heard so gently from the kitchen. Dedue, no doubt.

He rose slowly, taking the heavy covers with him like a cloak as he drifted on unsteady bare feet, following the scent, the sound, like a terrified creature coming from hibernation. He was dressed in only a soft robe. The blood had been wiped away from him, his hair softly washed. Only Dedue would do such things.

The man looked up as the King of the streets of Faerghus emerged, looking so lost.

"Master Blaiddyd," Dedue said gently, bowing his head. "Good afternoon."

"Dedue," he whispered. Then he had dreamed--no, he had gone mad indeed, dreaming of a dead man holding him. His eyepatch was gone, his hair loose and wild as he drifted to the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows, staring down as Fhirdiad was blanketed in snow. The covers were tightened around his shoulders. "How long has it been?"

"Nearly six hours, Master." A long time for Dimitri to sleep so soundly. So...  _ Warmly. _ He could have sworn Glenn had been holding him. Perhaps it had been Dedue. No. No, it couldn’t have been. Dimitri sank down, curling up in the blankets he had brought, leaned against the window. In his mind's eye, he could just will the glass to disappear.

"...It happened, then," he said quietly. "They're all dead."

Dedue paused in his stirring of what looked to be some kind of batter. "Master... Who do you mean?" he asked. After all, Dimitri had been shrieking to Glenn in the chapel for more than an hour.

"I... I killed them, the Dagdans. And... Glenn, in the church..." Dimitri turned his face from his little nest of blankets, shuffling his feet into them. "I..."

Dedue set the mixing bowl aside, wiped his hands on his apron before coming to his Master's side. "Master..." He didn't think telling him that they weren't all dead was going to help. And as for Glenn, well, he was five years dead already. "Everything is going to be all right." His hand was gentle but steering at his elbow. "Why don't you sit down?"

Dimitri let himself be led, the covers dragging after him. He would go where Dedue led, and found himself leaning on him, needing his strength.

_ It's not a sign of weakness. _

He gave the barest little ghost of a cry, like a reflex, like his body had remembered, but his mind hadn't caught up. Dedue paused, thinking he may have hurt him, before helping him ease onto the same couch Felix had blacked out against after being nearly choked to death. Not that Dimitri knew that. Not that he needed to know that.

Dedue's eyes strayed to the hallway.

Dimitri’s single eye followed. "What is it?" he asked wearily, curling himself onto the sofa.

"Nothing to worry about," Dedue said lightly. "Shall I prepare tea?"

"...what is it, Dedue?" For once he didn't sound commanding; just tired, tired down to his bones. He fought to stand again, unwind himself from where he had tried to settle, leaving his wrappings behind like a shed cocoon. Dimitri shuffled toward the hallway, holding onto the walls to stay upright.

Dedue followed him, worried, fretting, but all silently. This was Dimitri's home after all. He couldn't very well stop him from walking around it.

There were many, many rooms in this penthouse, too many honestly, but only one was being put to use.

He was tired, so tired, that was obvious. He lay, curled and gripping the sheets like a child, the tie loosened around the bruise of his neck, having only been able to slide off his shoes before he slept.

And Felix slept on. Normally so uneasy, normally so jumpy, so quick to wake at the slightest sound. Surely Dimitri's noise, bumping his shoulders against every single foot of the wall on his way down would wake someone like Felix, as dutiful a guard, a  _ Shield _ as Felix.

But no. He kept sleeping.

"I drugged him," Dedue confessed quietly behind him. "He... He wouldn't rest otherwise."

It was Felix who had held him to sleep. It had to have been. Who else smelled so vaguely of spice somehow? Of coarse, cheap, practical soap? Only Glenn.

Dimitri's lips parted. "...He--he was who I--"

Felix was who had held him in the church, who had sat beside him. Who he had screamed at. Did Felix hear everything he had said? That no one had asked Felix to be his guard?

Dimitri carefully undid the tie, hanging it over the headboard. This, this he could do. If he was a beast, then let him be a beast of protection.

He shifted the covers around Felix and climbed in wordlessly beside him, his back to the door as he settled in next to Felix's sleeping shape, the mattress sagging a little with his weight. He brushed Felix's hair from his face, from his neck, to keep it from touching the sensitive skin.

Had he heard? Had he heard it all, and still remained?

Felix would have to be heavily drugged not to react at all to a touch like this, but Dedue was not so reckless with his herbs. Honestly, he'd been surprised Felix trusted him enough to drink his tea in the first place. A mistake he likely wouldn't replicate.

But he  _ did _ respond. The wrinkled suit shifted around his body as he turned his cheek towards Dimitri's hand, as surely as if he had meant to do it. He remained asleep, remained unaware. But his face was now turned towards him. So like Glenn's, yet so... Not. So much softer, hidden beneath the angles and sharp cheekbones of his outline. And his eyes were smaller, more keen. But when closed like this, his lashes so long and tender.

He quested, in his sleep, for Dimitri's hand again. Dimitri gave him it gladly, linking their hands between them, letting Felix do as he liked while he shared his pillow, carefully arranged his feet to support Felix's. He was still wearing his socks, Dimitri noticed.

When they were small, this used to be common. Glenn would set them up with video games and snacks, let them chat and talk about whatever show they liked, play together until, inevitably, they slept, bunched up together. It used to be so normal yet so special, to wake up with Felix bundled under his chin, arms around the same toy.

How had he run his Felix ragged? Felix didn't deserve this. Dimitri didn't deserve Felix. Perhaps, he could try to be someone worth deserving.

Dedue didn't like to spy, but he didn't think it was safe to leave Dimitri with Felix, too drugged to defend himself. What if his ghosts returned? What if they whispered that Felix was, once again, an enemy?

But the movements Felix made were just so familiar, too familiar to be a ghost. It was easy to forget he wore a suit and dress socks instead of his soccer jersey and shorts as he, for the first time in so long, curled under Dimitri's chin just like the old days, his long lashes brushing along the length of Dimitri's neck. His hand even curled in the robe Dimitri wore. Holding him in place. Not letting him go.

"Dedue," Dimitri whispered softly, taking Felix completely into the circle of his arms. "Give me what he had."

Never, not once, had Dimitri ever asked to be tranquilized. He hadn't even asked for sleeping pills or medicine. It was either forced upon him, or tricked into his mouth. But this, this he would not risk. He would not allow himself to disappear into his darkness again, not here.

Dedue blinked, but he did not let his alarm show. He was a servant, first and foremost. So he bowed, leaving only long enough to make the brew. He did not bother to have it sweetened; Felix didn't like sugar and Dimitri couldn't taste it.

Alone with Felix, Dimitri ran his hands through his dark hair--it was longer than he remembered. Carefully he shifted, lowering his head to bury his nose into the crown of his head.

_ Are you my harbor, in the darkness of my storm? _

Had he  _ wanted  _ it to be Glenn, returning from the dead to soothe him? Or had he hoped, all along, that it was Felix, to guide him back into the light, to forgive him?

The mixture was pungent enough to smell down the hallway, that much Dimitri could tell. He sat up only enough to not dribble the concoction onto Felix's head, and drained the tiny espresso cup that Dedue had poured it into. Even without the ability to taste, he scrunched up his nose. Dedue apologized for the smell. The herbs were so sharp Dimitri felt the smell curl his hair somehow. But as he swallowed, it faded, and he realized, for Felix, Dedue must have disguised it in his favorite pine needle tea, or whatever it was.

Felix murmured something in his sleep, but it was too quiet to catch. It didn't matter.

Glenn looked down at them both, removing the tiny cup so Dimitri could sleep beside Felix.

He smiled, then faded away into nothing.

  
  
  
  
  


Sylvain didn't remember sleeping and he didn't remember waking. But it was still a comfort when he found his senses and the first thing he saw was green eyes.  _ Green  _ eyes.

"Claude..." he croaked, trying to move his arm and instantly regretting it. "Am I still hot?"

"I mean, debatable, but in this man's humble opinion." Claude grinned down at him, taking him into his arms to kiss his brow firmly. "You bastard... You should've radioed us." He had shuffled to sit on the bed, and called quietly for Alaba to bring coffee for them, something heartening.

It had only been two days since they'd recovered him and two visits from the strange, black-handed Cornelia as she poured healing into him. A woman so full of ice didn't seem capable of something as delicate as healing, but Claude was grateful all the same.

Sylvain shrugged, regretted it, smiled, regretted that too. "Did you wanna join the party? M'sorry..."

He was still too feeble to joke properly. A bad sign. Cornelia was sure he'd live, but wasn't sure it would be worth it. Claude was still full of hate when she told him that Sylvain would 'need to be replaced,' like he was just a lamp or a broken chair or something.

He wriggled to help sit Sylvain up, prop him against fat pillows, an arm sliding around his shoulders, letting him lean against his own. "Hey now, no sorries, not allowed. I won't ask how you're feeling... 'like ass' translates in every language." His hand tucked under Sylvain's, brought it close to him, kissing his fingers. "You did good. You're okay. We're gonna get you home to Faerghus so his royal crankiness can glower at you and you can have all the stupid donuts you want."

Sylvain hadn't flinched at being moved, even when Claude accidentally brushed a hand over his still broken femur. But he flinched at that, that mention of Dimitri, and his smile found somewhere else to hide.

"Claude..." he said, and the way he said it was enough for the King of Almyra to realize that the time for jokes had passed. "I don't... Want to go back to him."

"You don't?" Claude said, gratefully taking the coffee to press into his hands, the smell rich and hearty. "You... don't want to go home?"

Alaba didn't know enough of the Fódlan language to know what was being said, but the fussy old woman looked worried all the same. She took her leave, recognizing it would be a sensitive conversation.

Sylvain closed his eyes. "I'm--I'm afraid of him," he admitted softly. "Why do you think I take every job I can? I just have to... Get away from him."

Claude thumbed his cheek, careful of the bandages as he hummed. "I... I can see that. Then. Why don't you make your home here? I'd be happy to keep you," he tried to wink for him, but it was half-hearted. His fingers ran up the back of Sylvain's scalp, holding him to his shoulder as he reached over to nab his phone. "I'll extend your stay in the Chateau d'Khalid."

Sylvain watched him for a moment, watched him reach to communicate his desires. He closed his eyes again. "I can't. I can't," he said quietly, and the hitch in his chest was dangerous, threatened wracking sobs that would undo some of his healing. "He... Felix. He needs me."

"Hey--hey. Felix is--is probably fine. He's scrappy." Even so, he was thumbing a text to Dedue. He always liked that guy. The tall, stalwart type.

  
  


**CLAUDE**

Hey man

**CLAUDE**

Is Mr. Blaiddyd up and about and taking an audience?

Sylvain's up, but he needs to stay put for

well

the foreseeable future. Can I talk to him?

**DEDUE**

He is not awake at the moment.

I am afraid keeping Sylvain is out of the question.

Master Blaiddyd would have a fit.

  
  


Which was, Claude supposed, just a nice way of saying that Dimitri would come to Almyra and slaughter anyone in his way until he could see Sylvain again. And the way Sylvain's chest hitched, caught on the snag of being unable to escape…

Sylvain was afraid of very little. He hadn't even willingly given up his asset after being broken and probed, even though it might have ended his suffering. But Sylvain was afraid of Dimitri, and Claude wanted to keep him safe.

  
  


**CLAUDE**

Well he can have a fit at me.

**CLAUDE**

What time is it even in Fhirdiad isn't it like 3pm????

  
  


He was sheltering Sylvain against his chest, letting him rest there and sip his coffee while he texted furiously. That little shit--Dimitri,  _ gods. _ He was grateful he dealt with him very little--and scaring his Sylvain, fuck that.

  
  


**CLAUDE**

I insist.

  
  


Dedue, as always, texted back calmly, somehow making even the most obvious of threats seem mild.

  
  


**DEDUE**

Your insistence means nothing, Master Riegan.

Sylvain is a valuable asset belonging to the Blaiddyd Organization. Belonging to his King.

I will not hesitate to make an enemy of you if I have to.

  
  


And Dimitri had more firepower than Claude could reasonably scheme away.

Sylvain's hands trembled until he could hold the coffee up no more, and it was impossible to tell if it was with pain or with fear. Likely a bit of both. He lay his ginger head on Claude's chest and closed his eyes, trying to be cute enough that Claude put his phone away.

"Claude? Khalid... Who are you texting?"

"Eh, just Lorenz. I sent him an ass pic but it was just the fold of my elbow. He's pissed. It's hilarious." The phone was tossed across the bed by Sylvain's feet as he focused his attention on him. "I love when you use my name."

Sylvain wished sorely that he was not so fragile, so breakable right now. It had been so long since he'd had Claude's attention so fully. People begged their King to get back to work, but he mostly refused anything that could not be done from here, right by Sylvain's side. Sylvain couldn't help but be so enamored with that simple fact. He winked lazily, slowly. "Well, maybe I'd use it more if you ever visited."

Claude almost bit back ‘if your king wasn't so feral I'd visit more,’ but... He couldn't help but pity the broken King of Faerghus, no matter how terrifying. However, his own retainers should not fear him. His fingers carded through Sylvain's hair, "Yeah, yeah. Do you need any more morphine? Something for the edge?"

Sylvain shook his head. He didn't necessarily feel pain. He only wanted to be free again. Free of the nightmare King. And Felix... Sweet Felix, he couldn't leave him in his clutches. No. He was going back. He couldn't be a coward. Not while others suffered.

He buried his face in Claude's chest and inhaled his cologne. "Kiss me," he begged, even though his nose and mouth were muffled into his shirt.

"As you wish," Claude said, and it was so strange for Sylvain to be treated to the pick-up lines. He tipped his head back, carefully bringing his mouth to his, nuzzling their noses together.

It was so stupidly selfish, Sylvain thought, molding his lips warmly around his. To run from one King to another, especially when he loved both of them. And he knew that even if Dimitri granted it, even if Dimitri said he was free, even if Felix joined him forever in Almyra, his heart would never be satisfied. Even his best dreams contained them both, Claude and Dimitri.

And Sylvain was a nobody; to be loved by two Kings was too much to work with, even for a slut like him. But he wouldn't give it up. Never. He clung to Claude's shirt as much as his broken hands could.

Claude wanted to hold him properly, bring Sylvain across his lap, into his arms, kiss him like he saw in so many movies, a hero with his rescued beloved. He lingered, though he deepened his kisses, mindful of how fragile Sylvain was, of his pain. Sylvain deserved to be loved like this, when he had so much love to give.

Sylvain, at least, could feel loved in the way he kissed him. But Claude was so angry; angry that he couldn't enjoy it properly while thoughts of Dimitri scalded him.

Sylvain moaned quietly into Claude's mouth, and had to pull away panting much earlier than usual. He scowled as he gestured at his splinted legs, his bandaged lap. "Man... Usually with a kiss like that my stupid dick would stir. Useless," he grumbled as if his own body was a disappointment. How dare he be injured.

"Hey, hey..." Claude caught his cheek, directing him to look up at him, his voice so tender. "It's okay. Plenty more where that came from." He bent down and captured his throat in kisses, shamelessly sucking dark circles on his skin. Ordinarily he would be busy somewhere else, but Sylvain was still recovering after all.

It was not like Sylvain to be so emotional at such times, but he couldn't help it. Aside from sex, he'd woken up every moment wondering if he'd ever be able to walk again. And it terrified him. If he couldn't walk, maybe they'd think he was useless. The work of Kings was dangerous after all. Would Claude no longer want him? Would Dimitri? He'd been so sucked into the world since he'd met them that he couldn't imagine being thrust out of it again. So Claude's wanting of him was so important. Was so precious to him. Unless it was born only of pity, but he could usually tell what that felt like. Usually.

He gasped and turned his head to give Claude more access to him, made it easy for him because he was just so, so terrified that if he didn't, Claude would lose interest. Who would want him now?

Was it even worth it to survive? 

"Kha--lid," he whimpered, taking a gentle hold of those dark curls.

Claude grinned into his skin, pressing further into him, murmuring nothings, groaning into his skin. He wasn't about to do much more than that, but he wanted Sylvain to feel irrefutably wanted. Desired, loved. His fingers tangled into Sylvain's red hair, holding him fast, but not pulling. Not that he had any particular care for her, but he thanked the Goddess of Fódlan for sparing Sylvain, that he wasn't sending him back to Dimitri in a box. He couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the thought of that smile being snuffed from his life. Unintentionally, he squeezed him closer.

Sylvain knew that he wouldn't be allowed to stay here for long, not after his mission had gone so badly. The other agent hadn't even been able to arrive, waylaid by some snag or another, so the pass had never happened. And after being caught and nearly dying, Sylvain knew he wouldn't be allowed to try again. He'd be sent back to Dimitri, and he didn't know what the King would do to him.

He'd better make his time here count.

As Claude kissed and touched his chest, he felt Sylvain's hand sneak between his legs and rub sensuously over his thigh. The surprise on Claude's face was adorable. Clearly he wasn't expecting it. His cheeks darkened, and he turned Sylvain's jaw to him.

"Are you sure?" he asked, "You're still pretty fucked up..."

Sylvain looked up at him and Claude knew that Sylvain would persist no matter what he said. His closer friends and lovers, Claude and Felix mostly, knew what Sylvain determined to be his self-worth. "What, too ugly?" he asked, cracking a smile but looking so, so desperate.

"No, babe, you could never be ugly, not in a million years. But you're... you're recovering--" He trailed off, knowing Sylvain would do what he wanted, or pout until he let him. He swallowed back a sigh and brought Sylvain onto his lap, terribly careful. They were not in a real hospital, and he didn't know what he would do if he broke Sylvain too much for even Cornelia to put back together.

Sylvain was so grateful. Relieved, to still be wanted, and honestly surprised Claude (shorter than everyone but Felix) could fit him in his lap. He decided to return the favor and leaned up, pressing his lips to his throat, eager to leave marks of his own. Cornelia did the best she could with his body, but this was for Sylvain's psyche.

It was a bit of a trick for Claude to hold him, but he did his best, letting him lean against his chest. "Mm... feels good," he purred in his ears, praising him. "That's my Little Red." He lined kisses under Sylvain's jaw.

This wasn't the first time Sylvain had been beaten to shit and treated Claude to his best in exchange for taking care of him, being by his side. He heard him say it, he'd heard it a thousand times.  _ I will stay by your side. I won't leave. _

But he'd also been lied to. He had to make himself useful for people to stay. And he liked being called Little Red.

Sylvain deepened his suction just a little, wetting the spot with his tongue, listening to Claude moan. Poor man, he must have stayed by him for so long, working with no relief. He wanted him to stay, to stay even longer, forever...

He choked his tears back quickly. That was not the vibe he was going for right now. To make sure Claude didn't notice, he ground down a bit against his lap, the best he could given his condition. His legs might be somewhat broken, but not his ass, not really. He could take him. He was determined to.

Claude turned his face, and instead of pointing out his tears, kissed every one he could reach. How could anyone make another person feel like this? Feel like he had to earn his keep, prove himself?

More than most, Claude knew the usefulness of people, of their connections, of their work. But he also kept people around him just because... he liked them, he liked watching them, liked loving them. Lorenz drove him up a damn wall, and yet he got a thrill to see another block of text berating him for something or other. And he knew, that if he needed an expensive--something--appraised and offloaded, Lorenz was the man for it.

The King of Faerghus seemed on a different level though; what kind of king left his closest friends and lovers feeling the need to prove their loyalty and usefulness at every turn?

He swayed Sylvain a little, hoping to calm his frantic appeasing.

Sylvain froze a little. Damn. Claude was too perceptive. Still, he was going to keep on until he was pushed away. His unbroken hand found its way under Claude's buttons, pressing warm fingertips into sensitive spots, caressing his dark skin tenderly. "Hey," Sylvain swallowed, terrified and needy. "I love you." Not something he'd ever admit if he wasn't broken down like this and under morphine.

Claude's lips parted and he brought him closer, closer still, swaying him slightly, hoping the motion might ground him a little. It was impossible to ignore being touched so tenderly, though. "I love you too," he told him, not something  _ Claude  _ would ever admit unless someone he trusted well said it first. He brought his mouth together with his once more, not intending to come up for air anytime soon.

Sylvain let a hum escape him, a satisfied sound. He'd been hoping Claude wouldn't laugh, wouldn't pull away, wouldn't seem shocked or even angry at what he said. Sylvain was used to all those reactions, but he was happy Claude hadn't been one to use them. He thought he'd probably break if he had.

Now his resolve to return to Fhirdiad was, weirdly, stronger. The only other two people he'd ever said that to were there. He had to bring them together. But enough sap. He had a job to do.

His tongue slipped gently along Claude's lip; granted access, he rubbed it eagerly against Claude's, moaning at the wet friction of it. He sucked at his lip and nibbled a bit, wanting to stimulate every part of him.

Claude undulated against him, cradling his face, his cheeks in both hands, supporting him with the crook of his elbows. He carefully rolled his hips up, making sure not to jostle Sylvain too painfully with each muted thrust. His tongue twisted and pressed against Sylvain's, knocking their teeth together.

Sylvain uncurled his body from hunching against Claude, showing off his chest to the best of his ability. It had been mostly untouched by his captors, and he  _ did  _ have a beautiful body to show. He broke the kiss only to groan, spread his legs a bit across Claude's lap, a beautiful reaction. His hand palmed eagerly at the fastenings of Claude's jeans, grinning up at him. "I can put my mouth to better use," he purred.

Claude was doubtful, but at least he could control himself that way. "If you insist, but. Let me shift around a little. Hang on."

Claude laid Sylvain against the pillows, and for a moment, it looked as if he were going to leave him on the bed, but Claude was collecting more pillows, stacking up what he could to prop himself and Sylvain up on. Now he settled down, sliding out of his pants to present Sylvain his cock, at an angle that wouldn't strain his neck or back. If this was how Sylvain wanted it to go, he would give him anything he wanted.

Sylvain was all too happy to oblige. Claude had said he loved him. Said he loved him back, and he believed him. Claude might jerk some people around to get what he needed, but not Sylvain, he hoped. He stroked him, closing his lips over the tip and sucking lightly, taking care not to think of the last thing he'd had in his mouth--that iron pipe.

Claude could feel Sylvain was a bit clumsier than usual, but of course, he did not chastise him for it. Briefly, he wondered at the ethics of doing this to an abused man who was still recovering, still under medicine, but Sylvain wanted, needed this so badly. He rewarded him by stroking his hair, his shoulders, assuring him that he was supported, held, caught in his hands.

“Look at you, what a beautiful creature.”

Sylvain purred at the compliment, throat vibrating around him for added effect as he leaned forward. He was aware enough that this wasn't his best, and he would make up for it by focusing on absolutely nothing else. He took more of him, drawing his cheeks in for suction, using his tongue in the most devilish ways. He didn't mind being absolutely unfair in such a scenario, grinning around Claude's length as he swiped his tongue several times over the sensitive head to make Claude buck and gasp.

It was difficult to not lurch, to rock into poor Sylvain’s face. Claude had to be as still as he could while he braced himself against the headboard, groaning.

“Sylvain... t-take it easy.” He wanted Sylvain to do so for his own sake, but typically, he wanted no such thing.

And Sylvain did no such thing. He wrapped his one good hand around Claude's hip and squeezed hard to make him focus on the pressure before dipping his tongue against him again, slow and torturous, the kind of thing that would guarantee someone might come running back for more. It never failed him. He buried Claude entirely, until he hit the back of his throat; not that Sylvain had much of a gag reflex to speak of anymore, which served him well. And he looked up at Claude through his long lashes, that damp-eyed pleading look that he'd been known to finish men and women alike off with.

Indeed, Claude felt himself swell near to bursting, and his hand not clutching onto the headboard grasped at Sylvain’s hair, tugging him tighter, closer to him. “Sylvain... you’re too good at this. How is my stamina supposed to keep up?”

It was a tease, as usually Claude could hold his own for a long while, even against Sylvain’s prowess. It certainly wasn’t Claude humoring him and coming early. He wanted to make this last, this beautiful moment with Sylvain all to himself.

Sylvain knew he was teasing but... Claude stayed. He was still here with him, and he had been the whole time. He wanted to favor him for that. Favor anyone who would stay with him when he was so low, and not kick him while he was down. Claude may have been worried about the ethics of face-fucking a recovering man, but in reality, Sylvain had all the control--something Claude was comfortable giving to only a select few.

He buried his nose, flush against Claude's stomach, sucking and slurping noisily as he took all of him with ease, making sure that he moaned and savored the taste as loudly as possible. With Claude, it wasn't an act. With Claude, Sylvain enjoyed his taste.  _ "Mmph!" _ he half-whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and milking him with his tongue and cheeks.

Claude was extremely vocal in his pleasure, moaning, throwing his head back. His thighs squeezed at the sides of Sylvain's cheeks, aiding in the pressure. Nails sank into Sylvain's scalp, pulling him closer, near suffocating him against his belly.

Sylvain loved this, loved listening to his voice, whether in lullaby or in more sordid activities. Claude was a very, very gifted actor, and it served him well in their less than legal work, but hearing him let go like this and be real was a true gift. It reminded Sylvain that he adored doing this for Claude just as much as Claude enjoyed receiving it.

He carefully laid his broken hand over his own growing erection, twitching under the loose pants that fit over splints and bandages. Honestly, he was surprised he could get it up under such broken conditions while just sucking but--hell, it was  _ Claude.  _ He could see stars as those handsome copper thighs pressed close over his cheeks and opened his mouth wide so he could pull a few inches back, resisting Claude's grip, before pressing his throat back over him.

Goddess, he never wanted Claude to leave his side.

"Hey! Hey!" Claude bent over him, spying what his hand was up to. "Your hand, let me--let me, I want to." He had to crane over Sylvain a bit to reach him, but took his length with gentle hands. "Here. Let me," he repeated. He knew exactly how Sylvain enjoyed being serviced, twirling and twisting his hand in spirals along his member.

Sylvain choked on Claude now, now that Claude was touching him so fucking much and so well... He whined, long and low in the back of his throat and Claude could feel him grow hard, cock twitching under his perfect hands. Sylvain's eyes rolled backwards and the whine became a muffled wail of eagerness. He bucked his hips as much as broken legs would allow.

"Hey now, lie back and relax, let me take care of you." His voice warbled a little as he too was being pleasured by the sounds deep in Sylvain's throat. His thumb circled over the tip of his cock, making him groan. "My Sylvain," he whispered.

Once, Dimitri had called him that. ‘I want  _ my Sylvain _ to come with me!’ Little Mitya, small and afraid. Everything hurt, and that hurt even more.  _ My Sylvain. _ He knew he'd have to leave Claude soon. And Claude... The King of Almyra couldn't leave his castle. Couldn't come with him. And Dimitri would demand he come home, whether Sylvain wanted to or not.

And he honestly wasn't sure anymore which was the truth.

But he protested Claude, shaking his head, and jerking back so that Claude's cock slipped from his lips, wet and glistening with his ministrations. "No," he begged, hoarse from the self-imposed abuse of his throat. "Please, I... I want you." Claude's hands were on him... What did he mean?

"What do you want?" Claude asked, tipping his chin up, fingers moistened from his work on Sylvain. "Tell me what you want from me, and you will have it." He would've given Sylvain anything he wanted.

Sylvain chewed his lip. Normally he was not embarrassed to let filthy words just pour from his mouth, but sometimes, usually with Claude, he wanted to sound sincere, and that was a practice he was unfamiliar with.

"Let me have you," he begged, looking down at Claude between the man's legs. "Just once, please?"

He'd never actually fucked Claude. Never felt him like that. In fact, despite working in such close proximity, neither of them had ever done anything more than hands, mouths, or occasionally just rubbing frantic bodies together. He knew it was so, so much to ask. He'd hit on Claude so much when they met that he'd overstepped his bounds and Claude finally forced him to back off. He didn't want that now. He would step away if Claude said no. But the thought of sharing that with him... Honestly, Sylvain would have given himself up, but his body was too battered.

Claude’s mouth opened, to ask if he was sure, but the words died in his throat. If Sylvain wasn’t sure, he wouldn’t have said it, not in that serious tone. "Okay. Okay. Here's what we'll do."

He laid Sylvain back, supporting his head on the pillows as he straddled him, hovering so his weight did not come to rest on his body, fully sit on him. His own cock bumped a little against Sylvain's belly.

"Is this okay?"

There were a number of lotions at the bedside meant for keeping poor Sylvain's hands from cracking, his lips. Claude assumed would work fine here.

Sylvain wanted to cry. Claude would do this for him? Claude would do it even though he was broken and ugly and unable to help? Tears formed, but he didn't have the ability to keep them down. Both hands, well and broken, touched Claude's chest.

"Are... Are you sure?" he asked. Claude had sworn so, so many times he'd never let Sylvain fuck him.

"Yeah," he said, and waggled his thick eyebrows, bending down to press their faces together. "Yeah. Come at me, big boy." It was so over the top, he hoped it would make Sylvain laugh. His lips fell upon his throat, and he kissed him deeply, letting Sylvain toy with the curls on his chest. While distracting him, he set to work preparing his own body, spreading his knees.

Sylvain was just so shocked, so grateful, he  _ did  _ laugh, he laughed and sobbed and then apologized for looking so pitiful and crying. He kissed Claude, wrapped his arm over his neck and moaned as he felt Claude's arousal rubbing against his stomach, still wet from his throat. He'd never wanted to fuck anyone so badly in his life, and yet here he lay, bandaged and mostly impotent.

Claude knew Sylvain didn't have the energy or strength to finger him first, but that was fine. He could do it himself. He just didn't realize he'd feel Sylvain's broken hand bump against his own, as if encouraging him.

Claude ran his fingers across Sylvain's bandages briefly, whispers soft. "I got you. I've got you, Little Red." It was spoken into the shell of his ear, breathed. He too was more eager than he let on, and shuffled to stretch himself open--more pliant from his longing.

Sylvain buried his face in Claude's shoulder and moaned helplessly, clutching at his back with the only hand he could and using the other to rub lightly over Claude's inner thighs, teasing, even though it hurt like hell. Morphine was good for something, he supposed.

_ Little Red. _

"Khalid..."

Equally, Claude adored hearing his name, the name he was given, the name he held secret, gave as a gift. "Yes," he moaned, "I'm here." He directed Sylvain into him, watching his face for any signs of pain, signs to stop.

There wasn't enough pain in the world to stop this from happening, Sylvain privately thought. And honestly, even with the drugs, his whole body was one giant ache. Still, he was more worried about Claude. The King of Almyra was no doubt experienced in such things, but he didn't want to assume.

"W-wait," he begged. "I'm still dry, I don't want to hurt you," Sylvain whispered, reaching weakly for the oils by the bedside.

"Hey, hey. I got you. And I'm all oiled up too." Almost tenderly, Claude batted his hand aside, uncapping the oil with his thumb. The warm fluid was spread on him, their bodies still somewhat connected.

Sylvain was squirming a bit with Claude's hands dragging over his cock covered with oil. He thought he could just come like this, with the emotional intimacy of Claude finally allowing this, allowing him.

He briefly wondered if it was just pity.

Claude gasped softly, his green eyes overcome with want, and before he could really stop himself, he pushed Sylvain in the rest of the way. He gave a cry, arching his back, his thighs trembling, but knowing he had to keep his legs braced, to not land on Sylvain's fragile body.

Sylvain didn't remember the last time he was so squeezed. He fucked so many and so often, why was this so different? Because it was Claude?

He wanted to drag him down to kiss, but he was just so weak he couldn't manage it. He yanked weakly at his shoulder, rutting up just a little bit to fully seat the last inch of himself into him.

_ I love you. _

Claude stooped down further to reach him, to kiss his mouth properly, press back his hair. He had been so terrified, seeing him in that dingy bunker. He had imagined having sent Sylvain to his death without saying goodbye, without telling him how he felt. To send Sylvain back in a box to a King who scared him. He almost cried with relief to feel Sylvain breathing beneath him.

Sylvain wanted so badly to hold Claude, hold him  _ properly. _ Why the hell couldn't those assholes have just...  _ Raped  _ him or something? Breaking his hand and legs was worse to Sylvain, because he couldn't be of use, be of service to the person whom he actually cared to service.

"Closer," he whispered, dragging his shoulder down to kiss there too.

Claude obeyed, bending down, lying his chest across Sylvain's without putting any weight on it. "My handsome Red, what do you want from me?" he whispered.

Sylvain had to wince as the angle changed; Claude was torturing him and he loved every second of it. "You fucking t-tease..." he whispered, reaching around to cup the back of Claude's head. "Do you have to be so beautiful?" It wasn't a line, not with him. Okay, it was, but it was sincere.

"S'my prerogative, got a problem with that? Maybe I should..." He began to draw away, knowing full well Sylvain would try to tug him back.

But Sylvain surprised him by not doing so. It was clear he wanted to, and pouted, but at the same time, he let his hand slip over Claude's shoulder and onto his still-clothed chest. "Will you let me see all of you?" he murmured. It wasn't like he hadn't seen him with his shirt off, or fully naked of course. But if this was going to be their first time, he wanted to watch the beautiful interplay of Claude's muscle as he rode on top of him, fully in control of his own pleasure.

"You want a show?" Claude asked, stroking his cheek. Typically it was Sylvain stripping for him, dancing for him. But he wanted to give that to Sylvain today, to give him his affection, his strength. To spoil him.

Sylvain looked up and nodded, breathless, wordless.  _ Please... _ His eyes were so dark with lust, so bright with affection, all at once. This man, who pretended to be so simple, contained so many multitudes.

Claude let him slip comfortably back to the pillow, sitting back up, arching his back in a rippling motion while he wriggled his shirt free. The button-down was massaged off his body by his own hand, dropped off the edge of the bed with a clink of his buttons. The trousers and underwear were a bit trickier. He had to work them off one ankle while still straddling Sylvain's body, finally kicking them off his heel to a pile on the floor.

Now he sat before him, bare but like the richest treasure of shining copper and gold. Across his back lay the tattoo of a tiny set of wyvern wings--something Sylvain had dared him to get in some shady Almyran parlor. They had once been highlighted with white ink, but that had long faded. On the inside of his upper right arm lay the names of his younger sisters, so that when his arms were at rest, they pressed against his heart. His wrist had an arrow--shamelessly hipster, he knew, but he couldn't help but like the design.

"How's this?"

Sylvain didn't even bother trying to hide his stare. He watched Claude undress and longed to worship every part of him. Weak as he was, he could only watch for now. He could only pray this wouldn't be the last time Claude allowed him to see his body like this. He brushed his hands over him, over the tattoos in reverence, even over his back where, though the wings of the wyvern were a dare, Sylvain had no doubt a wyvern's heart beat beneath: wild and clever and free.

"It's... everything," Sylvain finally confessed, unable to find words to describe him.

Claude guided his hands gently across his skin to places that felt good, to his heart, his back. "That's good," he murmured. "Because that's what I want you to have. Everything." All at once he sank down to kiss his chest, his throat, his chin, falling upon him like a wyvern might.

Sylvain ignored the pain and he ignored it well enough that Claude didn't notice it. Good. Nothing would ruin this moment for him. He held on, wrapping both arms around him, even less careful of his hand than he should be, and held Claude down to him, trapping their bodies together. He wished he had the ability to fuck him wild. But that would have to wait.

For now, he sank his lips into Claude's hair and whispered to him, taking in that heady scent of saffron and turmeric.

It fell to Claude to do most of the work of thrusting, as Sylvain could not curl his back that way. He rolled into him, giving him all of the cries and moans that would drive men crazy, but unlike with most, they were sincere. He wanted to give Sylvain everything back that he could, give what he had lost in his body back, packaged in pleasure.

Sylvain loved to be ridden, loved to watch just about anyone, male, female, or otherwise take their pleasure with his body. It drove him crazy to know he could be useful for that. Always. But with Claude, it was like a piece of living art which moved and breathed and schemed. He admired him, every bead of sweat another jewel to adorn the crown of Claude's brow, every roll of his hips like the ethereal ebb and flow of the tide.

He reached between them, wrapping his hand around Claude's own erection, squeezing to watch him rock harder, pick up the tempo.

Claude flung his head back, sending the sweat flinging over them like stars. His braid had come undone a long time ago, a single lock of curls sticking to his neck, rolling down his shoulder. His lips were swollen, white teeth biting down against the fullness. His brow was creased, his fuzzy chest heaving as he struggled for breath.

_ "Sylvain!" _ he hissed as soon as his partner's hand brushed his erection.

Sylvain couldn't hold back his breath anymore and released a strangled  _ "fuck" _ as he stroked him, rubbing his cock with as much enthusiasm as his bandaged hand brushed over the dark curls of Claude's chest. If he could, he imagined himself sitting up and sucking on those nipples until they were dark and sensitive, just like Claude's cock. For now, he had to settle for rubbing them with his thumb instead.

Claude’s skin seemed prime to be touched, and despite the lack of teeth, his nipples grew hard anyway, little interesting nubs under his fingers. He leaned his head back, gasping the whole contents of his lungs. Claude grew wet and twitched under his fingers, wavering. He picked up his pace.

Sylvain felt the body clench around him, dragging him inward, and he had to close his eyes for a moment, concentrate on not coming right then and there. Did Claude know how beautiful he was? He had to, right? He continued to work him over, stroking at his chest and admiring the color that blossomed there, darker than most of Sylvain's lovers in Faerghus, many of whom were of Sreng descent. 

"Do you know what I'd do to you," he moaned, looking up at Claude, who was doing his best not to put his weight on him. "If I wasn't injured? I'd throw you down right here," he murmured, pinching that little brown nub until it became erect. "And I'd ravage you until you knew nothing but my name."

Claude moaned, nodding. "Let's get you on your feet, then. I want--you to fuck me till I can't stand up and--choke me out--"

It was incredible that he was saying this out loud, he must be far gone in the throes of his pleasure.

Sylvain became a little more aggressive, hearing Claude talk about his fantasies, his desires, and knowing they were with him. He finally braced himself on his good arm to sit up, let Claude ride in his lap as he contained his flinching. He'd just ask for more morphine afterwards. He closed his teeth and gnawed over one nipple, teasing the other with his hand, letting the friction of their stomachs rub Claude between them, already damp and leaking just a bit. "Choking, huh? I'd be happy to oblige," he mused.

His teeth were electric on Claude’s body as he let himself scream, no longer caring who heard, how much he'd be lectured.

"Ah  _ fuck…  _ S-Sylvain!"

This was the man he wanted to see him so undone, so... vulnerable. Because in many ways, they suffered all the same. In a burst of white, he came over Sylvain's hand, his belly, warming him to the core.

Sylvain shook, groaning as he dipped his tongue into Claude's mouth, muffling his cries and swallowing them all. Just two more shoves as Claude rode out his orgasm and Sylvain released with a gasp, coating his insides with a sinful warmth that Claude wanted to hold inside him forever. 

Sylvain clutched him tightly as they both peaked, reaching their highs almost simultaneously before slowly, slowly coming back down, panting for breath, holding one another tightly. Sylvain just plain refused to let go, no matter how much his trembling became painful now that arousal was not there to distract him.

Claude laid him down, and then carefully lay his body over his like a blanket, his release gluing them together, sticky and sweet against the curves of their bodies. No words were needed as he bent his head, listening to his heart beat frantically, coming down slow. "Sylvain," he mumbled, and that was enough. There was no move to pull away or to disconnect, just relishing having him inside him, even if it ached. He couldn't imagine how it felt for Sylvain. He would wait till he was ready before he carried them to the bath.

Of course, Sylvain chose this pain over asking for more morphine. He would much rather have the intimacy of the afterglow than beg for drugs. He held him, rubbing Claude's sweaty curls between his fingers as he peppered his face with lazy kisses. "Khalid... that was amazing," he breathed, knowing that Claude would understand what it meant to him.

"Yeah?" Claude teased him, rubbing his stubbly chin against his chest, tickling him a bit. "Did that feel good? Well, just think what it'll feel like when you're back in the saddle. You can--can ride me as much as you like." He gave a slow little wink. "Want to go cuddle in the bath?"

They'd be furious with him, but he'd already worn Sylvain out, and the bandages would need to be changed anyway.

Sylvain nodded. He wanted that very much.

Maybe if he pretended to be more injured than he was, Fhirdiad could wait.

  
  
  
  


Hubert worked himself to the bone for the King of Faerghus, and had very little allowable communication with his true boss, Princess Edelgard, thousands of miles away.

But a mere few hundred feet below the penthouse of the Tailtean Arms, Ferdinand was, once again, rebuffed by the doorman, who also worked for Master Blaiddyd. They could deport him if they so chose, but they didn't consider him much of a threat; not with Hubert under their thumb. But they weren't letting him in and that was final. Even demanding to see Dimitri had little effect--they claimed he was resting and not to be disturbed.

Ferdinand was not to be deterred. He stood in the freezing cold, the blizzard having dumped nearly two feet of snow on the city. "Surely those of Fhirdiad have an ounce of hospitality in their bodies," he huffed, tapping one booted toe. "I carry a message from the Imperial Princess, and I  _ must  _ deliver it in person!"

He would apologize to Edelgard about that later. He doubted she would care.

The doorman appeared like most doormen--uniformed and proper and polite. But he also carried a high-quality weapon, and was authorized to use it if he needed to. Not by law, of course, but by the King of Faerghus.

"You will have to wait," the doorman blinked again, as stubborn and undeterred as Ferdinand was. This was amusing to him, considering other, more forceful ways people had tried to gain entry to the penthouse suites.

Ferdinand whirled in a whip of red hair--perhaps something Hubert had imagined when he chanced to look below--and stamped off to a coffee shop to regroup.

Though he ordered only a small tea for himself, the scent... comforted him. He shut his eyes with a deep sigh, breathing in the smell of the beans roasting, drowning out the chatter of cold patrons.

He had to get in. How? He was certain now every entrance was guarded. Perhaps he could... hide in one of the packages? Ferdinand cursed himself. He was usually so skilled at the art of verbal negotiation and leadership... Hubert had been the master of sneaking about, the espionage. He put his chin in his hand, angrily stirring his tea, as if it would spit an answer back up at him like a magic eight ball.

He missed Hubert, that bastard of a man who conspired in throwing him out. Well!  _ Well! _ He would just throw himself back  _ in! _ That would show him!

"Rough day?"

Ferdinand was stewing so angrily, he hadn't even noticed a man sit right across from him at the table. He, too, bore a cup of tea. From the aroma, it was the same Bergamot that Ferdinand purchased. The man's tone was deep and calm, and he pushed his own tea to Ferdinand with an elegant hand.

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid I've gotten a bit... turned about in the city.” He took up the tea gratefully, his lashes lowered as he drank. Being in a bad mood was no excuse for bad manners, after all.

"I can certainly understand that. Fhirdiad is rather cold, is it not?" The man smiled, and there was something cool about it, sinister. Like Hubert's. "And cold to visitors as well. Please. Call me Tobias. What may I call you, if I may be so bold?"

"A pleasure," Ferdinand said. He had learned, through Hubert's insistence, to be more cautious about passing out his name as if they were dinner mints. At least he had learned  _ that  _ from him. "... Tobias, where do you hail from? That it is so common to join a stranger at their table? It must be very friendly. I should like to visit such a carefree place."

Tobias didn't seem perturbed that Ferdinand did not give him his name, nor did he press him. "I have a grandparent of Dagda. But I hail from right here in Faerghus. And in Fhirdiad, precisely. It is my birthplace, and I know it well." He did not explain why he was at Ferdinand's table. "Another tea? You must be so cold, hailing from the Adrestian Empire."

Ferdinand darted his eyes to the side, seeking any others. Was he about to be seized again? How funny, to be thrown out by his supposed host, only to be captured by another force. Hubert had warned him this was bloody business, but… Usually, Hubert was here beside him. And this was his world. Ferdinand's path lay along the light, the sunny lid to the dark underbelly, keeping it contained.

"Did my accent give me away, then?"

Dagda... He had heard of terrible unrest in that area, silenced by its rulers.

Tobias' smile grew into a bit of a smirk, and there was not a trace of warmth there. "Ah, no. But you shouting down the block that you held a message from one Lady Edelgard did." He lifted his hand and gestured to a barista behind the counter, who scurried to do his bidding--despite the fact that this was a coffee shop, and people normally ordered from the counter. He slid a black business card over the table. "I am of the Dagdan Embassy, Ferdinand," he said coolly, despite Ferdinand not having given him his name. "And I have a rather sharp bone to pick with young Master Blaiddyd. It seems you and I have that in common."

Ferdinand sat back, raising his chin. He took the card, but tucked it away after giving a cursory read. "The bone you have to pick with Master Blaiddyd is your own. I will not endanger my Lady, or my country's affairs with Faerghus."

Despite his heart for Hubert, despite his longing, his need to rush up and shout the man hoarse, if only to smother him in kisses, paled in the face of duty to the future of his people. Hubert had called him simpering for that once, before he kissed his knuckles. Too many people depended on them. He had to be strong of heart.

"I appreciate your company, Ambassador. But I will not speak of political affairs without the presence of official notaries."

How dull.

Tobias did not seem surprised or deterred. His face remained carefully blank. So careful. "I understand," he bowed his head respectfully. "Then, if you do not wish to speak, may I at least state my case?"

A woman appeared with more tea for Tobias, who once again pushed it over to Ferdinand. A government official would not be so foolish as to blatantly poison in him in public, Ferdinand could practically hear Hubert tell him. But drinking the tea might be harmful for other reasons. It might lead to a different sort of manipulation--psychological. Still, it did smell awfully good, and it was so, so cold outside.

"I am willing to listen, as two gentlemen at a coffeehouse, and not an ambassador and a duke." He took the cup, taking a deep, deep whiff. Very early on, Hubert had sat with him, training him to smell poisons. At the time, he had ignored most of it in favor of leaning against his bony shoulder and listening to him talk about his passions, but he remembered certain smells; cyanide smelled of almond, Hubert had told him, and hemlock smelled like carrots.

Ferdinand had grumbled and asked what the hell carrots smelled like. Now he wished he'd listened. Right now, all he could smell was Bergamot. He took a drink then, and tasted... nothing particularly bitter.

"You are very gracious," Tobias said, and he sounded sincere at least. "As I said, I represent the Embassy of Dagda. I am not the official ambassador--as I said, I hail from here in Faerghus. But a rather gruesome crime has recently been committed against Dagdan visitors here in the capital." He shook his head and rested his chin on his gloved hand with a sigh. "They were not exactly upstanding citizens. They were not here with visas and most of them had records of petty crimes; theft, robbery, things of that nature. Still, despite this, they came into Fhirdiad and half of them were brutally slaughtered. And given the methods of death, I believe Lord Blaiddyd to be responsible."

He offered up a small envelope from beneath his coat should Ferdinand choose to look. "For many years, he's gotten away with such crimes. Many in government still protect him despite this, as he is descended from royalty. But the time for royalty in Faerghus has passed." His tone took on a sharp edge. "No man should be exempt from lawful punishment for such gruesome transgressions... would you not agree?"

Ferdinand thought of the bloodstains he’d found on Hubert’s trouser socks, on the cuffs of his sleeves, the smoke of... something burned, caught in his hair.

“...For what reason would Lord Blaiddyd do such a thing? His charity is one of the strongest advocates for unifying, especially with Duscur and Brigid,” he took the envelope, opening it to a truly grizzly scene, and snapping it shut.

Tobias shook his head. "I cannot fathom what the reason may be. And because of his many... connections," he shifted in his seat. "I cannot approach him to question. He is called the King of Faerghus, even though no such lawful title exists, but it might as well be true, with all of his protections." His smile grew as he nodded at Ferdinand. "I'll admit, I'm not perfectly comfortable coming to you for help, considering your own business endeavors. Or rather, your connections to them. But this must stop."

“What would you have me do?” Ferdinand asked, sliding the envelope back, no longer craving tea with the bile in his throat. “Have him eliminated?”

The man blinked, now for once, looking surprised. "Goddess, no," he laughed. "How do you imagine you would even manage that? No, Ferdinand. I was merely hoping we could combine forces. Information, resources, that sort of thing. I am willing to let a few things slide for your Princess here if I could just find a way to get justice for Lord Blaiddyd's victims."

Ferdinand’s eyes listed to the side, lips tight and thin. They had been almost children, civilians--and the wrath Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd had laid on them was the work of a  _ demon. _ He swallowed tight. They had taken Hubert, forced him to do his bidding. The man was unhinged for sure, he could see that much.

“I will... speak with her Highness. I am but a jewel in her crown and I will not act without her knowledge.” Not again, anyway. She didn’t know he was here. Frankly, he doubted she cared.

"Excellent." Tobias stood rather abruptly. He clearly had places to be. "And perhaps, if he can be brought to justice, all that you seek will be returned to you as well." Just how much did this man know? "I appreciate your time, Duke Ferdinand von Aegir."

And then he was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry...

Hello everyone,

Unfortunately, this fic has been canceled, due to the absent interest of the rp partner I had to continue it. I'm sorry to those who hoped it would go on, however, this fic in particular will be sort of restyled and revamped under a different author on A03 with my own ideas and a few new rp partners I have befriended (with all the same ships you know and love)! I've not yet made the new profile yet, so if you wish to follow the newer version of this fic, I'll have it posted on my twitter @Mechanist_Macha so be on the lookout for that as well!

Thank you so much for the comments and the kudos, I appreciate you all so much and I hope you keep reading! <3333


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